


We'll Haunt This Place (The Two of Us)

by ElloPoppet



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And so does Clint (duh), Angst, Archery, Artist Steve Rogers, Awesome Kate Bishop, Baking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes Returns, Cap is NOT HERE for your homophobia, Clint Barton & Kate Bishop Friendship, Clint Barton Bingo 2019, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton's Farm, Clint Barton-centric, Coming Out, Confessions, Cute, Deaf Clint Barton, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Domestic Fluff, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Nightmares, Past Character Death, Pet Names, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovering Avengers, Sexual Tension, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers is a little shit, Steve Rogers loves dogs, Tension, Virgin Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-01-11 01:12:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18419744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: Huh. Captain America showing up at his farm unannounced in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon with a suitcase. Somehow, not the strangest thing to ever happen to Clint. Not even the strangest way he had been woken from a nap, honestly.Clint Barton Bingo 2019*now includes amazing artwork from natowe (check her out on Tumblr!)*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks!
> 
> This is my piece for Clint Barton Bingo 2019. Rather than a fic per square, I'm going to try to cover 13 squares in one fic. I am typically 100% WinterHawk trash, and I have a lot of complicated feelings about Steve Rogers, so I made the decision to ignore the Clint/Bucky square in favor of the Clint/Steve square on my card as a challenge. I hope I don't fuck it up, and if I do, my bad!
> 
> This fic assumes that Clint's family isn't a thing and takes place in some weird alternate timeline after TWS and AoU. I'll update tags and possibly rating along the way; stay tuned and strap in!

Clint was napping on the old couch, the one with the hole in the arm, when there was a knock on the door. Clint could tell based on the vibration that the knock was polite (so not Tony, Fury or Thor, then), yet firm (not Bruce or Wanda), and the fact that whoever was intruding on his afternoon siesta had bothered to knock at all eliminated Nat, Kate or Vision. Given that nobody other than his teammates knew about his shambling farm, that left two options. If Sam was standing on the other side of the door, Clint would swear at him, tell him to help himself to a beer in the fridge, throw him the remote and go back to sleep. If it were Steve?

Well. Why would Steve be knocking on Clint’s door anyway.

“Oh,” Clint didn’t hear himself say, because his hearing aids were somewhere on the coffee table in the living room. He cursed himself internally; he had only been away from the Tower for a week. One week, and he was opening the door before checking while down one whole sense. _Smart, Barton._

Steve stood on the other side of the door, his body filling most of the frame and Clint’s vision as he swung the door the rest of the way open. Steve looked both sheepish and amused at Clint’s obvious surprise. 

“Did I wake you?” Clint was pretty sure Steve asked, and he nodded his head. 

“Yeah, but it’s fine. Come on in, don’t talk to me, I gotta.” Clint motioned toward his ears and Steve nodded, reaching down to pick up what looked an awful lot like a suitcase, and stepped around Clint and through the front door. 

Huh. Captain America showing up at his farm unannounced in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon with a suitcase. Somehow, not the strangest thing to ever happen to Clint. Not even the strangest way he had been woken from a nap, honestly. Clint closed the door behind them and left Steve standing in the entryway while he headed into the living room. “Make yourself at home, Cap,” Clint called after slipping his aids back into his ears. “I need coffee. Want some?”

Steve was still standing awkwardly by the front door when Clint weaved his way back around and into the kitchen. His hands were in the pockets of his jacket and he was rigid, as though he didn’t want to risk brushing against anything, not even a wall or molding. 

“Caffeine doesn’t really-” Steve started, and Clint cut him off.

“Not what I asked. Do you like coffee?”

Steve furrowed his brows a bit, and Clint was struck with how young he managed to look sometimes. Decades older than Clint, with a body and a face at least 10 years his junior. The world was a fucked up place. Neat, but fucked up.

“Yeah, I do, actually. A cup would be nice, thank you.” Steve looked down as he spoke, and Clint’s sense of unease bristled. 

“I’m not sure why you’re here, but if you don’t stop looking like I’m gonna snap at you for getting mud on my carpet I’ll probably lose my mind sooner rather than later. Shoes on or off, doesn’t matter, but come in and really. Make yourself at home.” Clint stared at Steve until he nodded and toed off his shoes, some leather grandpa shoes that Clint would be sure to make fun of later. Steve shrugged off his jacket and Clint could smell the old leather from where he stood. 

“Thank you,” Steve said again, and Clint rolled his eyes. 

“Stop it. C’mon, you’ll have to tell me how you like your joe.” Clint led Steve one room over into the kitchen, where he started brewing a pot of coffee as Steve sat down at the small dining room table to wait. 

“Did you make this?” Steve asked after a minute, and Clint smiled. When he turned from removing sugar from the cupboard, Steve was tracing the arrow carved into the center of the table, the lacquer shining in the sunlight streaming in from the side window. 

“Sure did. First thing I did when I got here last week. It got bothersome, not having anywhere to put my shit.”

Steve chuckled quietly. “You know, you don’t really seem the type to build furniture while living on a farm.” A bit of the tension was draining from his voice, and Clint let himself relax a fraction himself. 

“Not sure how to take that, Cap. Do you want sugar with your coffee? It’s all I have to offer, sorry. Milk’s expired and I’m pretty sure the cream in there is butter by now.” Clint held up the bag of sugar.

Ah, there was a genuine smile, and a cocked eyebrow to boot. “Now that doesn’t surprise me,” Steve joked. “Buck used to always ask if I wanted coffee with my cup of sugar.”

Clint started dumping sugar into one of the mugs, watching the clumps dissolve as he did so. “You with a sweet tooth? I don’t recall reading that in the history books.” Clint carried the mugs to the table, where he sat across from Steve and took a large, burning drink. 

“Does your visit have to do with Bucky, then?” Clint asked, apropos of nothing other than Steve choosing that time to casually insert James Barnes into the conversation, the first time that Clint had heard him do so since the Winter Soldier’s attack and abandonment of Steve on the water bank a few months back. Last Clint had known before he decided to go on leave from the superhero gig, Steve and Sam had been in Europe trying to hunt down any trace of Barnes. He knew that Sam was back home, but he hadn’t mentioned anything to Clint about their secret mission or about Steve when Clint had met him at a bar upstate over the last weekend. And why would he? Steve and Clint weren’t friends. Teammates, yes. Brothers in arms? Totally. Buddies who hung out for casual get-togethers? Hadn’t ever been a thing. 

“We lost track of him in Siberia,” Steve said slowly, hands resting around his mug as though trying to warm them. “I didn’t want to come back, but Sam insisted that I was becoming...obsessed. I was a bit of a monster to everyone at the tower when we came back a few weeks ago, and I haven’t felt like my head’s been screwed on straight since Bucky…” Steve’s voice drifted, and the only sound in the room for a minute or two was Clint’s leg bouncing under the table. It was a habit, to always move when not on mission. Clint chalked it up to all of the time on mission that he had to spend stock still, undercover or on surveillance. 

“When I asked Tony where you were he told me you were here. Said you were taking time to clear your head, something along those lines. That was yesterday and I. I’m not quite sure why, but when I woke up this morning I packed a suitcase, took one of the cars and here I am.”

Clint hummed, mulling it over in his head. Friday had probably given Steve directions, was probably installed in all of Tony’s cars, and Clint’s location wasn’t a secret to the team. _”Just in case of an apocalypse level emergency,”_ Clint had told Tony. _”Don’t you dare ask me to do anything unless the world’s ending. I’ll be back when I’m back.”_

“It’s going to be winter soon, ya know,” Clint said, trying to sound as casual as possible, his mind finished with the mulling process. “And this house is a piece of shit. I’m gonna be spending a lot of time getting it fixed up. Helps me focus on anything other than, you know.” Phil and Loki’s names swam between them, whispers of Pietro and Ultron and all of the other constant horrors that had been wrecking their lives over the last few years. 

“I can help. I would insist on it. And I have plenty of money, from S.H.I.E.L.D and I have more back pay from the Army that I will ever know what to do with if you need help getting materials, or want rent. I can pull my weight, or stay out of your way, whatever you want.” Steve spoke quickly and officially, as though trying to sell an idea to Fury for clearance. Clint thought about interrupting him, his leader and his captain, but the rambling with a touch of pleading was a bit endearing if Clint were being honest. 

“Cap, stop. You can help if you want, or you can do whatever. There’s not much out here. I have a TV and a laptop and wi-fi and all that, and a box of books upstairs, but that’s about as fancy as the accommodations get. I know how it feels to need some r’n’r, obviously. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need, but if you try to pay me for it you’re gettin’ the boot.” Clint was kidding. Kind of. 

Steve leaned back in his chair and ran a large hand through his hair, tousling the shaggy blond strands out of place. It was distracting; Clint had rarely seen Steve look bedraggled at all, or anything less than perfectly composed, even during post-battle wrap-up. Flustered and mussed suited him. 

“I want you to be sure, Clint. You came here to get away from everything, and I don’t want to intrude on that.”

Clint internally groaned. That was it. He was going to have to try to corrupt Steve at least a little tiny bit over the next however-long, because if Steve continued to be _so damn good_ , the world would eat him alive.

“I didn’t leave to get away from you or anyone else Cap. Just everything, like you said. Now accept my generous offer, drink your sugar water and I’ll show you around.”

The agreement settled between them without another word, and when Steve had drained his cup in two large gulps, Clint placed their mugs in the sink, walked back to the entrance and picked up Steve’s suitcase. 

“You don’t have to-”

“Shut it Rogers, and follow me. I got a spare room you can use, the bedding will probably have to be washed though. I’ll show you where all of the appliances are and all that jazz.”

“You mean you don’t hand wash them on a washboard and hang them up to dry on the line out back?” Steve joked as he followed Clint up the stairs. Clint snorted.

“Yeah, sure. Do you see a piece of hay hangin’ from my mouth? This may be a farm but I’m not a bumpkin, man.”

When Clint opened the door for Steve and flicked on the light, Steve walked in slowly. Clint watched him take in the small bedroom with the full sized bed, large curtained window, dresser, and small nightstand. It was tiny, Clint knew, much smaller than the accommodations at the Tower, and nothing nearing the level of sleek and shiny. 

“This is great, Clint. Really,” Steve said, reaching for his suitcase. Clint handed it over and leaned against the doorframe as Steve flung the case onto the bed and sprung open the clasps, intending on unpacking and settling in. The sight stirred something in Clint’s chest; the absurdity of his day mixed with something that felt a helluva lot like eagerness and...relief. 

Clint was glad Steve was there. 

“Alright Cap, I’m gonna let you do your thing, and when you’re done I’ll show you where that box of books is. There’s a chair and a desk in one of the downstairs rooms, in case you wanna read or draw.” Clint got the reaction he had hoped for; Steve turned and smiled at him. 

“I’ll be down in just a minute so you can show me around, and show me where to do laundry. Thanks, again.”

Clint shot off a salute and stepped out of the doorway, thinking about pouring himself a second cup of coffee, when Steve’s voice stopped him in his tracks at the top of the stairs. 

“Hey, Clint? Can I ask for a favor, another one?” Steve called, and when Clint turned Steve’s blond head was poking out from the guest room. 

“What’s up?”

“Can you call me Steve?”

Clint’s cheeks warmed, which was unexpected. He swallowed and nodded, and Steve’s smile grew even wider before he dipped back into the bedroom. 

“Steve,” Clint mouthed to himself as he made his way down the stairs. “Okay, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bingo Squares: Clint/Steve (entire fic, really), Farm


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is outlined and fully plotted out. If all goes according to plan, all 12 selected Bingo squared will be covered in 9 chapters, with a bonus 10th chapter to round it all out. So. I hope you're prepared for what's bound to be a 20k+ slow burn ridiculous story that will likely wind up with an explicit rating. 
> 
> Here's to hoping that I can continue to make this make sense? Thank you to everyone who left feedback on the first chapter, I'm gonna need some hand-holding with this thing because it honestly scares the living shit out of me :)

“Hey, Steve? Would you mind lending me a hand real quick?”

Clint felt a satisfied grin spread across his face when Steve startled hard enough to drop the book that he had been in the middle of reading. Steve snapped his attention to where Clint had popped his head through the window and was now dangling halfway in, halfway out, folded ninety degrees at the waist.

“How did you even get up here? Clint, it’s a second story room,” Steve pointed out, sounding both chastising and reluctantly impressed. Clint’s grin grew wider. 

“All those years of being a carnie don’t just disappear overnight. Muscle memory, probably. That and pure, unadulterated upper body strength.”

Steve shook his head and set the book down on the floor next to where he had been kneeling as he sorted through the box of books Clint had shown him on his first day a few afternoons prior. With a quick glance, Clint noticed that Steve was separating them into different piles. He wanted to ask, but decided against it. His focus shifted back to Steve who was suddenly very close to the window. Clint leaned back, his balance nearly lost, and scrambled for purchase. Steve remained silent but looked far too amused for Clint’s liking.

“Shut up. You move, like, preternaturally fast, man. Took me off guard.”

Steve tsked. “And you always seem so attentive during missions.”

 _This snarky asshole._ “I called you Steve at the beginning of this conversation, in case you forgot. We are most certainly not on a mission here,” Clint pointed out, the bottom half of his body beginning to lose sensation. “Even though I could use your super soldier strength for a few minutes, if it’s not askin’ too much.”

Steve nodded toward outside. “Lead the way.”

Clint swung his legs to gather momentum before dropping back outside of the window, gripping the ledge with both hands tightly until he felt confident enough to swing to the slanted porch roofing to this left. He made the hop with ease, feeling Steve’s eyes on him through the window, and he used the gutters to assist him in his descent onto the porch, where he then jumped from the porch railing to the ground. He turned to make a falsely egotistical statement full of bravado just in time to watch Steve haul himself out of the same window. His long and muscular body seemed to practically float to the ground below, Steve’s feet barely making a sound as he landed perfectly with knees bent. He flashed Clint a smile when he straightened.

“Show off,” Clint said good-naturedly. Steve laughed and ran his fingers through his hair, a habit that hadn’t taken Clint long to notice at all. The tips of Steve’s ears turned bright scarlet as he laughed, and Clint filed that away in the back of his mind. 

“What can I help you with?” Steve asked when Clint started leading the way to the barn. Clint liked that he didn’t sound put upon, simply curious.

“‘m trying to get the riding mower started so I can tame this fuckin’ lawn one more time before the snow comes,” Clint explained as he pulled open the barn door. “I can’t get the jack to secure anywhere and would prefer to not get crushed into oblivion, so I figured maybe you could hold her up for me for a few seconds? I just have to try replacing a cable quick. Oh, and sorry for saying fuck.”

Steve followed Clint into the barn, natural sunlight streaming in through the windows, dust dancing in the beams as they cut through the center of the structure to make their way to the back where the mower sat surrounded by tools.

“I don’t care what you say, Clint. I just don’t like hearin’ Tony’s mouth running when we’re on the comms is all,” Steve said, rolling up the sleeves on his navy blue henley. “I’m not actually a hundred years old, you know. Didn’t do a lot of growing into an old man in the ice. Besides,” Steve leaned down and placed both of his hands beneath the front of the mower before hoisting the end three feet into the air, “I was known for cursing like a sailor back in my army days.”

Clint took the opportunity to stop gaping at the muscles rippling below the flesh of Steve’s forearms and dropped to the floor with his needle nose pliers and the cable he was trying to replace. As he got to it, he tried to keep the conversation going. 

“Yeah, okay, sure. Like I’m really supposed to believe that you were running around, dropping F-bombs and telling Hitler to suck an asshole back then. No way, no how Steven. You’re too...pure.”

Steve’s laughed was boisterous enough to fill the barn and echo off its walls. “Dum Dum and Bucky would disagree with you so much. And while I never got the pleasure of telling Hitler to go fuck himself personally, nothing would have stopped me had he been close enough to hear.”

Clint yelped as he pinched the skin on his forefinger with the pliers when Steve swore, and he found himself wishing that he had been paying attention to Steve’s face at the time, just to see what it looked like to see Captain Fucking America say “fuck” of his own volition. 

“Everything okay down there?”

Clint nodded, realized that Steve couldn’t see his head, and cleared his throat. “Fine. Got myself a little is all. Almost finished.” Clint ignored the pulsing ache in his fingertip and managed to free one rusted end of the cable. Steve shifted above him, lifting the mower a few inches higher.

“You know,” Clint commented as he tried like hell to unscrew the other end of the cable without stripping the thread, “no matter how many times I’ve seen you in action, I don’t think I’ll ever really get over how strong you are. What I wouldn’t give to be able to just hoist up anything I wanted to.” Steve remained silent, and Clint debated before continuing. “Did it hurt?”

“Did what hurt? Lifting the mower?” Steve asked, though by the sound of his voice it seemed evident that it wasn’t the question that he was really asking.

“The serum. We’ve all seen your file, you were a sickly little runt before Tony’s Dad got his hands on you. No offense. I always wondered when we read about you in school if the transformation hurt. They never talked about that part, but since I met you it’s all I really think I want to know.”

Steve didn’t respond at first, and tension filled the barn from floor to ceiling. Clint mentally beat the shit out of himself as he worked quickly to screw on the new cable, having successfully wrenched the busted one free. _Why did you have to go and ask that? That’s real fucking personal Barton, and you just asked like you had the right-_

“It did, actually,” Steve said quietly. Clint stopped messing with the mower and remained still. “Sometimes it still does. I don’t know if it’s the crazy metabolism, or my muscles constantly ‘refreshing,’ that’s the word Dr. Cho used, but you know those growing pains you get when you’re a kid?”

“Yeah, I remember those. Annoying and ached like a bitch.”

“Right. Sometimes my whole body feels like that. Especially the day after a long fight or whipping the shield around. It doesn’t feel like it weighs much, you know, but it weighs enough.” Steve spoke offhandedly, as though every word wasn’t creating a swell of sympathy in Clint’s chest that threatened to overflow at any moment. 

_How do I respond to that?_

“Well fuck, Cap. That really sucks.”

Steve laughed and though it sounded a bit strained, it eased the tension in the air considerably. Clint finished screwing in the new cable and slid out from under the mower. Steve swiftly set the machine down, the wheels gently taking the weight. Steve ran his palms over the thighs of his jeans, leaving streaks of oil in their wake. 

“Aw, Steve, no,” Clint exclaimed, picking up a rag from the ground and passing it over. “You mighta ruined them. Sorry about that.”

Steve simply smiled. “I’m not afraid of a little grease. It’s a welcome difference from everything else that’s covered my hands recently.”

Clint knew the feeling. 

Clint walked forward and slapped Steve on his shoulder. “Thanks for the help. And, uh, for answering my questions. I’ve been told that I’m not spectacular with boundaries, so if I ever overstep just tell me to shut my trap.”

Steve nodded. “Sure. I can do that. It’s really fine, I just had to find the right words to try and explain. It’s been a really long time since someone asked me about pain because of the serum, right? The quick healing and all of that.” Steve stopped and seemed to mull things over in his head for a second before looking over to Clint with an air of mischief. “You know, if you want to even the playing field, I do have a question that’s been on my mind for a while, if you don’t mind me asking.”

Clint felt like he had been doused with ice water; Steve had the highest clearance on the team. What could he possibly want to know that he couldn’t have gleaned from his file? A single thought pounded against Clint’s skull, but no, Steve couldn’t know about _that_ , surely he would have said something before, surely he wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing a home with Clint sleeping under the same roof if he was aware of Clint’s….proclivities. He had been raised in the early 1900s, after all. 

“As long as it’s not about Budapest, shoot,” Clint heard himself say, keeping the tone light. Miraculously, Steve’s face fell. Clint burst out laughing. 

“Oh my God, were you really going to ask about Budapest?” Clint asked, delighted. 

Steve held up his hands, defensive. “Hey, it’s not my fault. Everyone heard you and Natasha talking about it, and it was intriguing! It’s under Special Ops so there is literally nothing in your file, either of your files.”

Clint let out a peal of laughter. “Holy shit. You searched our files?! Does Nat know about this?”

Steve suddenly looked stricken. “She doesn’t, and if possible I would prefer to keep it that way.”

Clint’s laughter spiraled out of control. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, and he couldn’t be bothered to wipe them away. 

“Oh my God, you’re afraid of Nat. This is the best day of my life.”

Steve tried to scowl, but he couldn’t stop from smiling instead. _The giant teddy bear._

“Yeah, well. Why won’t you tell me about Budapest?”

Clint snorted. “Because Nat would have my head on a platter.” He met Steve’s gaze as they started to walk back to the front of the barn. Steve looked annoyingly righteous, like Clint had just proven him right about something. “Uh uh, nope,” Clint said, shaking his head with the ‘pop’ of the p in the word. “There’s a difference. I’m openly terrified of Tasha and I’m not ashamed to say it. You on the other hand? Tough guy exterior, bag of fluff on the inside. I’m starting to see you, Rogers. Soon you won’t be able to trick me anymore.”

They stepped out of the barn and into the sunlight, which bounced off of Steve’s eyes and Christ, Clint had never even seen eyes so bright and clear before. How had he missed them over the last few years?

“You know what pal? That doesn’t sound half bad,” Steve replied. He smiled once more at Clint before turning and walking toward the house. Clint replayed the exchange in his head and once he connected Steve’s response to what he had said he found himself rooted to the spot, not quite sure what one was supposed to do when Captain America _(no, Steve. Just Steve)_ declared you his pal and claimed that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be seen. 

Clint stood in his place until he heard the sound of the front door shut as Steve made his way into the house and then he followed suit, forgetting that he had wanted to mow the lawn that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bingo Square: Budapest


	3. Chapter 3

For being such a large man, Steve didn’t take up much space at all. If he had wanted to go unnoticed in the house Clint had no doubt that he could have; the thought amused him. He was cohabitating with Captain America, and the only reason he was aware of it was because Steve had been polite enough to knock on the door. 

It wasn’t that Steve didn’t ever leave his room. He did so daily, for meals (before Clint woke up in the morning, once Clint went outside to start working, and after Clint had made dinner of his own and was in the shower trying to wash off the grime from the day), to help Clint when called, and also to sketch and read in the side room on the ground floor. He had mentioned to Clint that he would try to give him space and not interfere, but if Clint were being honest with himself, he wouldn’t have minded a bit more interference. 

Clint got his wish nearly two weeks into Steve’s stay, by way of one bitch of a hailstorm. 

It woke Clint from a deep sleep (he had been sleeping so much better than he had in years, and he didn’t know whether to chalk it up to being away from the work or having Steve sleeping two rooms down), the vibration of the balls of hail slamming against the window disorienting him as he tried to find his aids on the nightstand. Once fully back in the land of the living, Clint pulled on a pair of flannel pajama pants and flung his door open. The staircase light was on, meaning Steve was already awake. Clint checked his phone. 4:53 am. _Why._

He found Steve making a pot of coffee in the kitchen, whisking milk and eggs together in a glass mixing bowl that Clint didn’t know he had. Steve noticed Clint come into the room, it was easy to tell by the change in his posture, but he kept working without comment. 

Clint watched Steve cook for a moment, admiring how soft his grey sweatshirt looked and wondering if this was the first time he had ever seen Steve barefoot. When they spoke, it was together, all at once.

“You need any help?”

“Sorry, I didn’t want the food to go bad if-” Steve paused and finally looked up at Clint. He looked tired, the hint of dark circles under his eyes. It was as human as Clint had ever seen him look. Clint followed Steve’s train of thought and offered reassurance.

“I’ve got a backup generator if the power goes out, but thanks. I can’t guarantee how long the generator'll last if we need it and if there’s one thing I hate to waste, it's food.” Thoughts of beans for breakfast, lunch and dinner living with his parents and then peanuts during offseason at the circus flew through his brain with lightning speed. The image of a frail and sickly Steve popped in there too, and Clint didn’t doubt that he shared similar feelings. 

Steve laughed, and it sounded a little bitter. “Of course you have a generator. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.” 

Clint sighed and leaned back in his chair, hands folded together behind his head. Steve’s eyes flitted across his bare chest and abdomen so quickly that anyone but Clint probably would have missed it. Clint watched it happen and fell back forward, crossing his arms over his chest. 

_Great work Barton. A+ way to make a guest feel uncomfortable, walking around half naked. Dumbass._

“It’s fine, really. Eggs and coffee sound like what’s gonna be the highlight of today. Don’t think I’ll be getting much of anything done. Winter is coming, Steve.” Clint was simply speaking to speak at this point as Steve took a break from the eggs to pour two cups of coffee. 

Steve snorted. “Hey. I understood that reference. I tried to watch that show on Thor’s recommendation. It was,” Steve paused, searching for the right word, “a lot.”

Clint laughed, and the house didn’t feel so quiet. Steve Rogers describing Game of Thrones as “a lot” was possibly the most endearing thing he had ever heard. It was a word that was constantly floating through around the periphery of his mind when it came to Steve ever since he had arrived on Clint’s front porch; endearing. 

It was probably a dangerous thought to have. Clint decided he didn’t care and took a sip of his coffee.

*

The power went out just before seven in the morning. The television went black and Clint groaned, having been left at a cliffhanger. He heard Steve’s pencil come to a standstill from the next room over, and he waited with bated breath for the generator to kick on. It did so after a full minute of waiting, and with a loud groan and buzzing whir to boot. Slowly, the lights flickered back on, and the screen of Clint’s television sprang to life with a push of a button. Steve’s pencil started scratching again, and within moments they returned to living in harmony. 

It was a harmony that promptly shattered less than an hour later when Clint both heard and felt the generator shudder to a halt before everything again fell dark and silent.

“Sonofabitch,” he whispered under his breath, throwing his blanket off and hoisting himself up to his feet. He heard Steve chuckle as he stepped into the room. 

“I guess you weren’t wrong to be concerned about your generator. Good thing we can both put away our fair share of food.” That statement coming from Steve was laughable; Clint was somewhat amazed, somewhat horrified at how many eggs he had watched Steve consume in the time that it had taken him to eat five of his own. 

“Yeah, good call. Still got a lot of milk in there though. That’s a wholesome American drink, right? Milk?”

Steve’s eyes twinkled in the dim light of the living room. The sky outside was dark, as though daybreak hadn’t even occurred, and the hail was falling to the Earth with a healthy dose of rain mixed in. 

“What about second breakfast?” Steve suggested lightly. “You’ve got cereal in the pantry.”

Clint tried to keep a straight face. He really tried, but the giant geek in his house made it impossible. 

“Precious leads the way,” Clint said with his best Gollum impression as he motioned toward the kitchen. Steve’s look of pure joy could have powered the house, Clint thought. No doubt about it. 

“Nerd,” Steve said as he led the way to the kitchen, tone playful. 

“Please,” Clint scoffed. “You started it.” He debated for a moment before tacking on “ya big dork.”

“Is that any way to speak to your team leader, Hawkeye?” Steve threw back over his shoulder as he started pulling boxes of cereal from the pantry and setting them on the counter.

“You’re in my house, Rogers,” Clint warned, pulling two bowls from the dishwasher. Were they clean? He was pretty sure they were clean. He got out two spoons as well and set the dishware sets across from each other at the table; anything to keep busy, to keep from examining the thrill that shot up his spine at Steve using his codename in the middle of a conversation. 

“I digress, then,” Steve said, bowing a bit and holding out a box of Reese’s Puffs toward Clint. Clint didn’t bother asking how Steve knew it was his favorite; nobody could ever toss around accusations that Steve wasn’t observant. Steve continued. “I am indeed a big dork.”

 _You cute fucker,_ Clint wanted to say, and clamped down his mouth to prevent himself from doing just that. He opted to pour his bowl of cereal instead, and then to watch in horrified disgust as Steve poured a mixture of Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, Fruity Pebbles, and Trix into his own. Steve doused his bowl with a generous helping of milk from the fridge and leaned over to do the same to Clint’s. It wasn’t until he started mixing his concoction together that Steve noticed the look on Clint’s face.

“What?”

“If you go into a diabetic coma I’m not taking you to the hospital,” Clint joked. Well, half-joked. As though in defiance, Steve shoveled a heaping spoonful into his wide open mouth and chewed, rolling his eyes back dramatically in his head as though consuming a delicacy. 

“Just like Ma used to make,” Steve joked after swallowing, and it surprised the laughter out of Clint. It burst out of him loudly, so loudly that he covered his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“You’re a little shit, aren’t you? Under all of that official, honorable patriotism and brute force, you’re a wicked little shit!”

Steve _winked_ at him, and holy shit Clint couldn’t wait to share with everyone he ever met that Steven Grant Rogers was a giant, dorky man child.

Or maybe he could keep it to himself. Somehow, that seemed more appealing. 

Breaking the bubble of laughter that had settled over them at the table, a loud crash came from above their heads. Steve reacted as Clint had the first few times something similar had occurred; he snapped to attention immediately, standing straight up so quickly that his chair toppled backward and onto the floor behind him. Clint watched his hand absently drift behind his back in an automatic search for his shield.

Clint calmly took another bite of his cereal and chewed as loudly as he could, hoping to draw Steve’s attention back to him. It worked, and Steve’s eyes flitted to Clint’s with laser precision. 

“Sit down, Steve,” Clint directed, as straightforward as possible. Steve didn’t follow, simply looked at Clint with a bit of confusion, as though he didn’t understand why Clint wasn’t on high alert. Clint tried to use his eyebrows to direct Steve back into his chair. 

“Sit. You think I wouldn’t be up there already if I thought something was wrong?”

It was a challenge, one made by Clint as the owner of his home to a guest in said home, who also happened to be a teammate. But it worked; Steve slowly picked up the fallen chair, sat down tentatively, and placed both hands on the table, cereal forgotten. 

“Explain.”

Oh, _there_ emerged Captain America. It was Steve’s commanding voice, through and through, and Clint could do nothing else but appreciate it. 

Clint shrugged, taking his last bite of cereal. “It’s the ghost,” he said simply as he chewed. Nat would have smacked him upside the head for talking with his mouth full. 

It was a response that Steve obviously wasn’t expecting. “The...ghost.”

Clint nodded and played with the sleeve of his hoodie that he had pulled on shortly after first breakfast. “Uh huh. It’s an old farmhouse, Steve. Lots of history. Are you surprised that it would be haunted?”

Steve looked conflicted. Clint bit the inside of his cheeks. It was most likely the family of raccoons that had taken up to living in his attic, but this was much more fun. 

“So there are….there are ghosts?” Steve asked, and Clint mentally added on the “these days” implied at the end of the sentence. Oh god. Clint was dying inside.

“There are loud noises, lots of creaking. A few cold spots, some banging around like you just heard. Could be the raccoons in the attic, but I figure it makes more sense that the place is haunted. Why? Would that bother you? Maybe even, I dunno, scare you?” Clint said, and finally Steve’s shoulders relaxed, his cheeks flushed pink.

“You jerk,” Steve said, and it was a cold, hard, factual statement, but fuck Clint if it didn’t sound like it was said with a bit of affection. Steve went back to his cereal then, and when he finished he took both of their bowls to the sink to rinse them. Clint watched, craning his neck backward to do so. With the rain coming down hard, and the gray light filtering in through the window, Steve in his sweatshirt and sweatpants in his kitchen looked like home, looked domestic in a way that pulled at Clint uncomfortably. 

“Hey, whaddya say we get outta here for a bit tomorrow? There’s a little downtown about twenty minutes out. I gotta run to the hardware store, probably get a new generator. Don’t want you to get cabin fever.” The idea came out of nowhere _(out of panic, you mean?)_ , but Steve nodded his assent almost immediately. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. I wouldn’t mind seeing the area. Think I might be able to find some charcoal pencils in town?”

Clint thought of the small office and art supply store on the corner, above the pharmacy, and nodded. “Should be able to, hopefully. If not, Amazon does deliver out here, you know.”

Steve smiled at him, and for a moment Clint thought it was that smile illuminating the room, until his brain caught up with him.

“Ha!” Clint said, pushing his way back from the table. “That wasn’t too bad. Power’s back.”

“You don’t say,” Steve deadpanned, and Clint was tempted to stick out his tongue, so he did. 

*

Clint spent the rest of the rainy day lounging and napping on and off on the couch, reruns of Dog Cops playing in the background. Steve was mostly absent, existing in the small office room, but at some point before dinner when Clint adjusted his position on the couch he realized that Steve had moved out there with him. Clint watched Steve read from an old, yellowed paperback for a few minutes before falling back asleep, eagerness for the following day blanketing him like fabric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bingo Square: Ghosts/Hauntings


	4. Chapter 4

They left the farm at midmorning the following day, not in the Porsche that Steve had yanked from Tony’s garage but rather in the old pickup truck that had come with the property when Clint purchased it a few years prior. It had been the first thing Clint had fixed, and he had poured way too much time and money into it given that it was a gas guzzling, rusty piece of shit.

Clint loved it very much, thank you.

Steve chattered during the drive, making offhand comments about the scenery and the hills that he hadn’t known existed. “I only ever saw Brooklyn. Back then, it wasn’t as easy to just go unless you were filthy rich. Like, Tony rich. And then when they defrosted me, I got to see New York City and then every other part of the world that I visited in between. But not this. I barely even knew that New York had a countryside.”

Clint’s responses were short, not because he wasn’t interested in engaging, but because Steve’s wonderment over the details of what could be considered everyday life for Clint was fascinating. Clint wanted to latch onto it, wanted to see everything through new eyes. He didn’t envy the reason why most experiences were novel for Steve, not quite, but he did find contentment in Steve’s curiosity and running inner dialogue. 

Clint parked the truck at the end of the block that served as the beginning of the downtown area. It was cool outside, still gray and a bit drizzly, but he wanted to stretch his legs and pop into a few shops to load up for the next couple of weeks. He knew snow was going to be heading their way soon, could feel it in his knees. Kate would have called bullshit, but what did she know. She wasn’t an old man like he was. 

Clint reached over to open the glove compartment on Steve’s side, thinking very little of Steve’s personal space until he was already very much infringing upon it. Steve didn’t seem to mind; he shifted his long legs to allow Clint access into the compartment. 

“If you need me to find something, you just have to ask,” Steve said, still looking out the window at the row of shops, stores and restaurants lining the street before them. 

“Yeah,” Clint said, grimacing and pulling the umbrella out, “my bad. I didn’t mean to get all personal bubble on you. Shoulda asked first.”

Steve turned his attention to Clint then, looking bewildered. “No, Clint. That’s not what I meant. Just trying to be helpful.” They sat in a silence that was awkward and stilted, as awkward as it had ever been between the two of them. Clint went to hop out of the truck but Steve stopped him. 

“I know it might be odd for you, kind of living with another guy in your house. But I was in the army, and even before then Bucky and I practically lived together. I’m not.” Steve paused. “I’m not averse to physical contact, is what I’m trying to say. I know there are some misconceptions or concerns on the team about how I might feel about two fellas being friendly, or more, or what have you, but I’m not, it’s not.” Steve physically clamped his mouth shut, jaw clacking, and then turned his full body toward Clint, leaning back against the window of the car, backlit by the rainy sky.

“I see the way that you and Tony, Tony and Bruce, and Thor and everybody touch each other. It’s casual, and close, and seems really nice, actually. I’m not going to freak out if a man touches me, that’s what people have wrong. I wish you guys could have seen the way that we would huddle together back then. There’s this culture now, in the future, well I guess it’s the present, where everybody assumes something about you if you’re a man and want to be close to another man in a friendly way and it’s kind of ridiculous.” Steve was staring holes through Clint. “Does that even make any sense?”

Clint’s head was spinning. “You feel like we avoid being intimate with you because there are fragile men out there who might think that makes them gay, and you think we think you’re a homophobe and that’s why we don’t touch you as much, but really you used to cozy up to your dude friends a lot and it would be okay with you if I gave you a hug right now because you look real fucking sad? Is that pretty much the gist of it?”

Steve looked like he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and then looked surprised, but eager. _Tony was right. He’s a goddamn golden retriever._

“In so many words, that’s about right. And I think a hug would be swell, really good.” Steve’s voice cracked in the middle and Jesus fucking Christ Clint was so old compared to this young, lost man with the weight of the world resting on a disc on his back, and so he tried to lunge across the seat to give Steve the best damn hug of his life.

“Blarghpf-” Clint exclaimed as he choked himself on his locked seatbelt, the fabric biting into the skin of his neck. Steve did laugh then, and this one sounded different. It was like all of the laughs and smiles that Steve constantly gave out were for practice; this laugh was real, full and wet and sounded almost a little painful. Steve reached over and unbuckled Clint’s seatbelt and opened his expansive arms as wide as he could in the truck. Clint wrapped his arms around Steve and was instantly engulfed.

The hug wasn’t overly long or uncomfortably intimate; it was a hug much like what Clint would get from Sam at the end of a bar night, or that he would give Tony after he repaired Clint’s Stark aids for the millionth time. But it also wasn’t _not_ novel, and the rush that Clint felt in his lower abdomen when he breathed in the clean, sweet scent of Steve’s throat couldn’t be ignored. Steve’s arms were huge and long and perfect for hugging, and fuck if Clint wasn’t going to be implementing hugs at the end of the night now before bed. 

And maybe first thing in the morning. And before going outside. And maybe after all meals. And before?

“‘M sorry we’ve been neglectful. Mostly sorry for us though, because we’ve been denying ourselves outstanding bro hugs. 10/10, would hug again,” Clint joked when he pulled back. Steve was smiling and the sadness was gone from his face.

They climbed out of the truck and Clint held the umbrella out to Steve, the drizzle still making its way to the ground. Steve shook his head. 

“No thanks. It feels nice,” Steve said, and Clint shrugged, opening the umbrella for himself. 

“So I’m going to go to the hardware store right down this block. You see that tall building at the end there, across the street with the black door? If you go through the door and up the staircase, there’s an office and art supply store on the second floor. You might find your pencils there.” Steve suddenly looked very excited, and Clint made a shooing motion with his hands. “Go on. Meet back here in an hour? I wanna grab some grub and then there’s a market at the end of the strip, figured we should stock up and do the grocery shopping together if you’re going to be eating all my food.”

Steve grinned and turned instantly to cross the street. After a few strides, he pulled a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses from his hoodie pouch, and Clint snorted. 

“You’d make a terrible special operative, Steve. You’re about as subtle as a monster truck.”

Steve slipped on his hat and glasses and flipped Clint off, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, mouth agape in delighted shock.

*

It was less than half an hour later when Clint was recognized. It happened sometimes, especially around the area. Everyone knew who Clint was, felt safer with him proverbially down the road for some reason. Usually when he was recognized people wanted to give a friendly hello or a thank you, or ask if he was _really_ an Avenger. 

He got tired of that one. 

This time, however, it was the cashier of the hardware store that ran up to him, and she looked panicked. 

“Mr. Barton! Can you, something is happening outside, there’s a man and another man and I think he’s seriously going to hurt him and-!” She gasped for a breath, and Clint sprung around her and out the door at lightning speed. He looked right; nothing. He looked to his left and was promptly greeted with the sight of Steve straddling a man on the sidewalk, using one arm to push the man’s face to the side and hold him down as he used his other to struggle with something the man was trying like hell to hold onto. 

“What in the fucking hell?!” Clint whispered (or yelled, maybe, he didn’t know, because _adrenaline_ ), sprinting toward the struggle. Slowly, Steve’s voice could be made out as Clint got closer. 

“-nd you should go and apologize to her before I haul your ass to the nearest police station, slimeball!” 

“STEVE!” Clint yelled (for sure this time), and Steve snapped his head around to look at Clint. Clint folded his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow; the dude on the ground didn’t stand a chance against Steve, and Clint knew that Steve was too smart to have not gathered whether or not the dude was packing a weapon. “Care to explain?”

A girl startled the shit out of Clint by running across the street directly at them as Clint finished his inquiry. She couldn’t have been more than 15 or 16 by Clint’s estimation, with a face reddened and tear streaked. 

“That asshole stole my purse!” She wailed, pointing to the ground. Steve wrenched once, twice, and then held out a lime green purse toward the girl. 

“Ma’am. I’m so sorry. I don’t think he took anything out of it but will you please check?” Steve’s voice came out calmly and so chivalrous when he spoke to her, as opposed to the cold snark that he had been using on the perp, and Clint had to struggle not to laugh at the comparison that popped up in his head. Steve was Gordon Ramsey talking to adults versus talking to children, and Clint wondered if Steve would enjoy watching Master Chef.

_Focus, birdbrain!_

“Is there a problem here gentlemen?” Clint, Steve, the girl and the douchecanoe on the ground all snapped their attention toward the direction of the voice. Two police officers stepped onto the sidewalk from the street, hands on their weapons, but not looking too harried. The younger of the two men did a double take toward the girl.

“Gabby? What-are you alright?” Clint watched the girl nod and point to the perp, who was now silent and still. Clint imagined the knowledge that he was well and truly fucked had started to sink in. Good. 

“He took my purse when he walked by and just ran! This guy got it back...he was real fuckin’ fast. I mean,” Gabby’s cheeks reddened even further. “Real freakin’ fast.” 

“I would think so,” the older cop said, squinting. “You’ve got you a story to tell at school on Monday, Ms. Michaels. Mr. Rogers, we can take it from here, sir.”

Steve sighed, and it was with exasperation, and Clint bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could to stop from laughing at this truly inappropriate moment. The other three folks now focused on Steve, who stood and reluctantly removed his sunglasses. 

“Holy shit,” Gabby and the young officer said simultaneously, as the perp groaned “Aw, man!”

Clint couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, and the relief of letting it out was most definitely worth the punch on the shoulder he got from Steve in reaction, even if it did leave a bruise. 

*

“Steven Grant Rogers. Captain America. Leader of the Avengers. Doling out vigilante justice to purse snatchers on the street. Do you swing around with Spider-Man in Brooklyn too? You gotta leave some crime for the cops to deal with, Cap, or else they’ll get bored.” Clint grinned at Steve from the driver’s seat as he turned onto their road, nearly back to the farm, a few hours into the afternoon. The truck bed was filled with groceries, a new generator, plywood to patch up a hole in the barn, winterizing window covers, batteries, blankets, some new and warmer clothes for the both of them along with snow boots, and a bag or two of art supplies for Steve. 

“Shut it, Barton. They wouldn’t have gotten there in time!” Steve groused, trying to sound serious. Within seconds both of them were grinning at each other, and Clint found that he liked having a story with Steve, an inside joke, a way to tease him that was all his own. 

They hauled everything out of the truck and started to put things away, moving around each other in the kitchen fluidly. Steve volunteered to do a load of laundry to wash all of their new clothes, and Clint was creating a stack of coffee tins in the pantry as he thought about the domesticity of Steve removing tags from their clothes, measuring out laundry detergent, and sorting their clothes later when they came out of the dryer. His hand slipped and the stack of tins fell, clattering to the floor. 

_Aw, coffee, no._

“The ghost?” Steve asked, coming up from the basement and leaning against the door frame to the pantry. He folded his arms across his chest. “Or just our resident clumsy archer?”

Clint snorted, putting the coffee tins hastily away, his hands shaking a little. When he was finished he turned to leave, figuring Steve would move out of his way to let him out of the pantry. Steve didn’t, choosing instead to gaze down at Clint with a look of amusement. 

“What are you, twelve?” Clint felt himself say, while panic was building in his chest. “Let me through.”

Steve stood, staring at Clint intently, eyes roaming over Clint’s face, corners of his lips turning up into a smirk.

“You gonna move me, Clint?” Steve challenged, and Clint wondered where it was coming from. Was this Steve comfortable? Playful? Brotherly?

Clint shook his head once. “Not even gonna try, Steve. I bet I can wipe that adorable grin off your face, though. Maybe take you by surprise? I’ve been known to be a bit of a trickster in my time. Lots of projectiles in here.”

Steve’s grin bloomed wider, a dusting of pink on his cheeks as he backed away from the door, letting Clint through. 

“All right, you win. I bet you would be a fun tactical challenge, though. Maybe we should put sparring on the books before snowfall? It’s the only thing from the tower that I miss.”

Things clicked into place for Clint then, and his anxiety dissipated. Steve had practically lived in the gym at the tower, always on the mat with Tony or Thor or Sam, once or twice with Nat. Of course he missed conditioning. 

“Your little bout of crime fighting got your blood pumping again, Cap?” Clint asked, continuing to put away the last bag of groceries. Steve hummed as though in thought, but didn’t answer. He started pulling out pots and pans, and within minutes the smell of browning beef and tomato sauce filled the kitchen. 

“Spaghetti?” Steve offered, already having pulled out two plates and two forks. 

“You better share with me at this point, that shit smells amazing.”

They ate together at the table, talking about winterizing the house, and by the time they were through and the kitchen was picked up, leftovers packed away, the sun had dipped below the horizon, night was falling, and Clint was itching for a shower. 

“I’m gonna turn in upstairs for the night. Thanks for going with me to town today. If you ever wanna take the truck, just let me know,” Clint said, making his way to the base of the stairs. “Night, Steve.”

“Hey, Clint?”

Clint turned to where Steve was standing in the living room, leaning against the side of the couch. Steve was backlit and it was difficult to make out his face in the shadows, but the tone of his voice was soft and timid when he continued. 

“I’m not, you know. Homophobic. I don’t think I actually spelled that out very clearly earlier. I just...wanted you to know. It seemed.” A pause. Clint’s heart stopped beating in his chest. “Important. That you knew.”

Clint felt dizzy, elated, and terrified of the implications of Steve feeling the need to tell him that. He knew. He had to know. _Why else would he feel the need to say these things?_

“10-4, Steve. Loud and clear. That’s. Uh. Good. But no real surprise. You’re not a big enough asshole to be a homophobe. But, still. Nice to know.” Clint was stumbling, blood rushing in his ears, and he started taking the steps two at a time. 

“Sleep well, Steve. If your old man shoes are any indication, it’s well past your bedtime!” Clint called. He heard Steve chuckle and swore under his breath as he entered his bedroom, closed the door, and ripped the aids out of his ears in the hopes that it would help silence the pounding of his heart. Steve, backlit in his living room. Doing his laundry. Cooking for them. Arms wrapped around him. Tackling a purse snatching piece of shit. Challenging him to a tactical spar. Barefoot in his house with a book in his hand. Offering kindness. Getting his beauty all over the place, in all of the nooks and crannies of Clint’s house. 

Clint’s heart skipped a beat, then two.

Oh, no. 

_Oh, fuck, Barton._

_This is bad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bingo Squares: Vigilante, Aw coffee no


	5. Chapter 5

Clint woke up every day over the next week _aching_ from head to toe. 

It wasn’t a physical ache; that kind of pain was something that he was used to, something that he could shrug off and somewhat ignore throughout the day. No, this ache ran deep beneath Clint’s skin and into the very viscera of him. He knew that as soon as he got out of bed, he would go and look for Steve. He figured he would find his housemate either in his own room reading, the downstairs study sketching, running around the property or maybe making coffee or eating a truly abhorrent concoction of sugar and more sugar in the kitchen. 

Clint would find him, and he would act natural, like a shift hadn’t occurred, as though he didn’t have a clearer understanding of why his heart did the weird flippy thing or stupidly sappy thoughts ran through his head or he had to try to cleverly hide random moments of arousal or-

On the eighth day of suffocating pining, Clint couldn’t find Steve when he rolled himself out of bed. He took his time showering, dressing, and putting in his aids, trying like hell to pace himself rather than storm around the house just to lay eyes on Steve (which was all he really wanted to do). No. He was a fully grown adult, a tough and manly assassin. He could start his day at a leisurely pace rather than tripping over himself to set eyes on his fucking _crush._

_Don’t be an idiot, Barton. A crush? C’mon. Thor was a crush. This is. This is._

Clint left it alone and paced the house, and then the property, trying to track down Steve. Steve had obviously been awake; a few of the downstairs windows were open, a cool but warmer than usual breeze blowing nicely through the ground floor. Clint found himself grateful that they hadn’t gotten around to winterizing just yet. There was a half pot of coffee left that was still hot, and Steve’s running shoes were gone from their home by the front door. Clint did a few laps himself outside, checking out Steve’s usual route, but he was nowhere to be found. Both cars in the driveway. Huh.

Clint fretted for about five minutes before reminding himself who he was worrying about. This was Captain freaking America, and Clint’s farm was possibly the safest location for Steve at that point in time. None of Clint’s alarms in the house had been tripped. Steve was fine.

(It didn’t stop Clint from texting Steve five minutes later just to make sure he was okay. Steve responded almost immediately that he had decided to run to the next cross-street and back that morning, to enjoy the warmth. Clint tried not to feel embarrassed. He failed.)

Clint ate breakfast, drank the rest of the coffee, started a cycle on the dishwasher and was about to step into his boots to finally finish repairing the side of the barn while the sun was shining and the weather was nice. He paused at the sound of rustling, and then a _smack_ coming from the small study. He took a few long strides and made his way into the room, seeing that a hard gust from the open window must have blown some of Steve’s papers and a few pencils from off of the desk. 

“Nooo,” Clint whispered to himself, crossing the room to close the window before leaning down to the floor to pick up Steve’s things. He gingerly started to pick up the pieces of individual sketching paper that had to have blown out of the looseleaf manila folder that swayed open on the desk. Clint stacked them lightly on top of one another, not knowing if they would smudge or not, and did his resolute best to not pay attention to the contents of the drawings...

_None of my business, none of my business, none of my business…_

...until something caught his eye that very much resembled something that was, indeed, Clint’s business. 

It was the familiarity of the picture that did it, even just having glanced at it vaguely as he picked up the last sketch from the floor. Clint froze for a moment, eyes settling just beyond the edge of the paper, trying to decide if he wanted to commit to looking. It this was what he thought it was, that was it. He would have to move out of the farm, to another country, change his name, cut his hair… _I wonder what I would look like with a mohawk...probably cool, I think…_

In the end, his eyes made the decision for him, and Clint sucked in a deep, sharp, painful breath as he took in every detail of the page, every stroke of Steve’s pencil. Not trusting his feet to keep him upright, Clint sat down in the middle of the floor, set the tidy pile of drawings down to his left, and gripped the sketch of himself and Phil tightly in both shaking hands. 

It was a line by line reproduction of a picture that Clint had once kept framed in his own bedroom, on Phil’s side of the bed. The photo had been taken years ago, two or three summers before Phil’s death. _Before you helped get him killed._ They had been vacationing in Mexico and much to Phil’s horror, Clint had been particularly fond of his selfie stick that Summer. Clint had been the one to take the photo, having jumped on Phil’s back while walking along the edge of the water at their resort’s beach. The high angle did wonders to highlight Clint’s shit-eating grin and Phil’s surprised, exasperated, and fond smile as he glanced up toward Clint’s phone. 

It was Clint’s favorite photo, and it had been the first one that he had stashed away his first time returning to the farm after the Battle of New York. He couldn’t even remember where all of their old photos had wound up, but he was assuming that they had made their way either into the guest bedroom or into the box of old books. He didn’t take Steve for a snoop. Clint also didn’t take Steve for an intruder of privacy, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to feel as he held Steve’s drawing of himself and his former lover in his hands. 

No question, then. Steve knew. _Why else would he have given that little speech, Barton? Of course he knew. But why didn’t he say anything?_ There was no mistaking the nature of Clint and Phil’s relationship in the photo. It wasn’t a picture of two bros or two co-workers hanging out on vacation. It was clearly a picture of two men in love, skin to skin, and Steve had taken the time to painstakingly get it right. Tears burned Clint’s eyes as he stared at it, but he couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to try.

“Clint? Sorry, didn’t mean to worry you. Where are y… _oh_.” 

Clint didn’t even look up at Steve, hadn’t even heard him come back into the house. He could see Steve standing in the doorway in his periphery, standing so very still. Clint didn’t say anything, certain that he would choke if he tried.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I found it in one of the books and I...I couldn’t not, Clint. That picture, it’s…” Steve’s voice drifted off, and to his credit, he sounded nearly as wrecked as Clint felt. 

“It’s a pretty gay picture, Steve,” Clint finally managed to say, lacking the snark for the joke to do anything other than fall flat. His vision swam and he held the drawing out to Steve in fear of ruining it with the tears that threatened to run away from him. 

Steve took the picture in a manner that was feather-light, and Clint looked up to meet his eyes then, a tear finally falling from each eye, one down each cheek with the upward motion of his head. Steve looked like a deer in headlights combined with a young child who had just gotten caught stealing money from his Mother’s purse. Clint sighed. 

“You’re my friend, Steve. You’re not in trouble, for chrissake. I was just...surprised.”

Clint felt his surprise ratchet up a bit as Steve sat down directly across from him. Both of them sat legs crossed, close enough that Clint could feel the warmth from Steve’s knees radiating to his own. Steve set the picture aside, right on top of the pile of the other drawings. 

“The wind blew them around,” Clint explained. He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t trying to, you know. Peek, or anything. So, I’m sorry too?”

Steve shook his head vehemently. “No. This is your home, Clint. Even if you had come in here for the sole purpose of looking, I couldn't fault you.” Steve hesitated. “I can show you everything, if you want. All you have to do is ask.” 

Clint smiled, or he tried. Another wave of tears hit him, following the same tracks down his cheeks as the first pair. “Show me if you want, but maybe not today. If you couldn’t tell, I’m a bit of a fuckin’ disaster here, Cap.”

Steve visibly winced at the use of his title, and Clint wanted to take it back. Steve spoke too quickly, the words rushing out of him fast enough to make Clint’s head spin. 

“Clint, I’m so incredibly damn sorry for your loss. I didn’t know. I didn’t know before, or after, but you must have been hurting so much, and I never checked in on you after Coulson-after Phil died. I know you didn’t owe me that information, but I just wanted you to know that I would have been a better leader, I would have been there for you more, had I known. I hope,” Steve’s face contorted, a wave of guilt and grief passing over his features, “I hope you weren’t afraid for me to know who you are, Clint. Because this doesn’t change anything. Or maybe it does, but it...I don’t.” Steve closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, looking frustrated. 

“It’s fine, Steve. Really. Yeah, Phil and I were together. Only Nat knew. I know you woulda been there, you’re always there for everyone. But it was my fault and my choice that you weren’t. And it wasn’t because I was afraid, but I just didn’t know, I guess. And then you kinda moved in with me and I felt like I should mention it but I didn’t want you to feel creeped out when you just came here to relax, so.” Clint waved a hand in the air, _voila_. “Here we are.”

Steve kept his eyes closed, regulating his breathing. “What did you feel like you should mention, Clint?” Steve asked steadily, and Clint’s heart rabbitted in his throat. 

“That I’m queer, I guess. That I’m attracted to men. And some women, here and there, but. Mostly men.” _Might as well go all in with the truth, I guess._ “And I know you’re not homophobic, I KNOW that, but I won’t blame you if, you know, you wanna go, or whatever.”

Steve’s eyes snapped open at that, and he looked affronted. “Do you want me to go?”

Clint shook his head. “Fuck, Steve, no. I don’t. Just saying that I would get it if you felt different about me, is all.”

Steve worked his jaw for a moment, and Clint couldn’t make out what he was feeling or thinking. He looked hurt, and angry, and so goddamn compassionate that Clint’s body burned with it. 

“If I feel differently, Clint, it’s not a bad thing. I don’t think anything about you could convince me that you’re anything less than a kind, hardworking, ridiculous, loyal friend and colleague.” Steve swallowed; Clint tracked his Adam’s apple with his eyes. “And my family.”

Aw, feelings, _no._

“Clint, no. Don’t cry,” Steve said as another tear rolled hotly down Clint’s cheek. Steve reached out so slowly, so slowly that Clint knew it was to give him time to tell him to back off if needed, but Clint kept his mouth shut and let Steve brush a thumb over his cheek, catching his tear before it met the rest of them on his shirt collar. Rather than moving back right away, Steve spread his wide hand over Clint’s cheek, cradling Clint’s face, and Clint wanted to snuggle into that warm palm, wanted to move his head over and brush his lips against Steve’s pulse, wanted, wanted _so fucking much._

“I gotta go,” Clint said, jerking backward from Steve’s comforting touch. “I’ll be out back. Doing something. I just. It’s fine, Steve. All fine.” Clint sprang to his feet, heard Steve call out after him as he snatched his boots from the front entryway, and closed the door hard behind him. He wrangled on his boots as he went down the porch stairs, and within two minutes he was exiting the barn with his oldest bow in his hand, a full quiver of everyday arrows strapped to his back. He was barely thinking, just going through the motions of the best coping strategy that he had at his disposal. In the months after Phil was killed, Clint had shot so much that his hands and muscles had lived in a constant state of screaming.

_Not what this is. Just a bad moment, Barton, and you’re not alone this time._

Clint shot for nearly an hour straight, cognizant of the fact that Steve had come outside to watch about 45 minutes in. Steve stayed out of the way, twenty paces behind Clint, and it had a calming effect. Clint would be okay with Steve at his back; he always had been.

Finally, after the full hour was up and Clint had once more removed all of the arrows from his targets, rather than going back to his shooting stance Clint beckoned for Steve to come over. Steve came wordlessly, stopped directly in front of Clint. Steve’s piercing eyes stared into Clint’s, and neither of them said a word. Neither of them backed down. 

Clint could love him, he knew. _It’s where the pain’s coming from, dumbass. Moving on is futzing hard._

“So,” Clint said after a few beats. He extended the bow to Steve, who took it carefully and cocked a confused eyebrow in Clint’s direction. 

“You wanna learn some archery today?”

Steve’s face bloomed, his smile belonging to Clint, the feeling that everything would be okay blanketing them both. 

“I got nothing better to do,” Steve said, sounding a little breathless, “and even if I did, I’d cancel for a lesson in shootin’ from my best archer.”

Clint smiled, handed over the quiver, and went into training mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bingo Square: Pining


	6. Chapter 6

“I want to take you somewhere. You free this afternoon?”

Steve’s voice carried over the bitterly cold air and the sound of Clint’s hammer banging endless nails into the last board over a weak spot on the outside of the barn, where the wood had been rotting away for over a year. Steve was on the other side of the wall, talking to Clint through the window which he was trying to cover with plastic sheeting. Over the last two weeks, the weather had taken its true turn into Winter, and it had kicked their asses in gear. 

Of course, Steve hadn’t complained a single time when Clint had asked him for help. He remained a paragon of virtue and selflessness. Or so Clint told himself...though he figured the constant gushing in his head likely had to do with all of those messy and sticky feelings that just kept getting messier, stickier and hotter every damn day. 

“Gee, Steve, I’m gonna have to go inside to check my planner,” Clint joked, hammering in the last nail. “As you know, I’m an incredibly busy man in high demand.”

Clint imagined that he could hear Steve rolling his eyes and wished he were in the barn with him. 

“Haha, funny. Fine. You about done?” Steve called, and Clint stepped back to admire his handiwork. It would hold through the winter just fine. As he did so Clint could see Steve on the stepstool, stretching his arms above his head to secure the top of the plastic sheeting. His coat and shirt rode upward, and Clint’s mouth dried at the sight of the strip of skin revealing Steve’s navel. 

“Uh,” Clint said. “What?”

Steve let out an amused huff. “If you’re done, go on and shower. I want to go into the city. I’ll be done here in a few, take my turn getting clean and then we can head out?”

Clint nodded at first, realizing that probably wasn’t the best form of current communication, and cleared his throat. “Yeah, sounds good. You gonna tell me where we’re goin'?”

“Naw. Where would be the fun in that?” Steve asked, and Clint’s insides warmed. 

*

An hour and a half later they had made their way into the nearest major city, Steve behind the wheel of the pickup this time. The Porsche would have done fine since there was no snow to be seen just yet, but Steve insisted that he preferred the truck. Clint watched the scenery pass by during the silent ride, music from the radio drifting in and out. The silence was comfortable and didn’t need to be filled, and Clint was so unused to that sensation that he kept making false starts, opening his mouth and closing it again much like a fish struggling for air. He was both relieved and disappointed when Steve parked the truck; he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so relaxed. Honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time he had let someone drive him around to an undisclosed location. 

He wanted to point that out to Steve. Wanted Steve to know just how fucking much he trusted him. Rather than stepping into that pile of quicksand, Clint got out of the truck and walked around to where Steve was standing, looking up at the building ahead of them. 

“Aw, geez, Steve. You shouldn’t have,” Clint said dryly, earning an elbow to his ribs. He grinned and followed Steve up the stone steps to the art museum, welcoming the warm air that surrounded them the moment they stepped inside. 

He let Steve pay for their entry tickets, in spite of the ticketer wanting to let them in for free, and he checked his coat when Steve checked his, as well as the messenger bag that Clint hadn’t noticed him carrying. Steve held onto two hardcover books and a handful of pencils, which he jammed into his back jeans pocket, and then they were off, maps be damned, to explore the first art museum Clint had ever been to. 

Steve wasn’t all that much more knowledgeable than Clint was when it came to ancient artifacts, and Steve was actually the one to be schooled when they came across some of the first native bows and arrows used in the United States. Clint talked and talked as they stood in front of the display case, and Steve listened to him intently. Clint paused when he noticed that Steve was hiding a smile behind his hand

“What? Am I not allowed to nerd out like I’m sure you’re going to be doing all over me soon?” Clint asked, teasing and without vitriol. 

Steve moved his hand, showing the whites of his teeth as he grinned. “No no. You should be like this all the time. It’s adorable.”

Clint’s heart fluttered, and feeling like a child, he ducked his head and walked around to another display case so that Steve wouldn’t see the blood rushing to his cheeks. 

They explored the museum slowly, and Clint found that he was enjoying himself far more than he initially expected he would. Of course, it was awesome to spend time with Steve and to catch glimpses of admiration in those clear blue eyes as he studied certain pieces, but Clint found himself interested in the works themselves. He wasn’t stupid, or ignorant to history, as much as others liked to make him out as the jester of their broken little family. He had always been interested in the history of war, and weaponry; aerodynamics, engineering, and calculus. He hadn’t truly made time for creative learning in his life, and he found himself filling with both regret and joy as they made their way through the building. 

It wasn’t until they reached the last exhibit that Steve sat down on one of the viewing benches in the middle of the room. Wordlessly, Clint sat beside him, their bodies pressed together from their shoulders to their thighs; the benches were truly not made for two men of their size to share. But Steve didn’t seem to mind, and so Clint didn’t shuffle over to make space between them. 

“Here. This one is yours,” Steve said, extending one of the large hardcover books over the Clint. Clint opened it instantly to see pages and pages of bright white sketching paper. When he looked over at Steve to protest, Steve was holding out a pencil. Clint bit his lip and took it tentatively. 

“You showed me how to shoot your bow, and I was terrible at it, but you showed me anyway. I wanted to repay you, wanted to teach you something that means a lot to me. You already know as much as me, if not more, about sparring and tactical planning and combat, so I figured this might be good. Have you ever drawn before?” Steve’s voice was low and he was turned toward Clint, whispering into his ear, and Clint suppressed a shiver at the feeling of Steve’s breath ruffling his hair. 

“As a kid, I think I liked to doodle. ‘m not too bad at designing my arrows, and I used to draw up and make some of my own outfits at the circus. Anything else though, no, not really,” Clint answered, looking straight ahead, afraid to turn toward Steve because he was so close and Clint’s heart was beating too hard. 

“Okay. I’m going to sketch that statue right there ahead of us. You see how good the lighting is, how it falls on the stone to make the fabric look like it’s rippling and soft?” Clint nodded and swallowed, and Steve continued. “That’s the hardest part to get right. What looks easiest to you?”

Clint eyed the statue of the woman, an ancient goddess he gathered, and focused on the way that her hand curved to rest her fingertips on her jawline. 

“Her hand, there, where it meets her face. Easy angles, not a lot of shadows there, or shading or whatever,” Clint said, and he did look at Steve then to make sure that Steve could see what he was pointing out, but Steve was looking directly at Clint, his eyes unblinking, close enough so that Clint could count his eyelashes, and Clint was _burning_. 

“Yeah,” Steve breathed, nodding a little. “That sounds. That sounds good. Just focus on that bit, on getting that small bit right. It might be easier if you make a grid on your paper, with the proportions. Here.” Steve leaned over, resting his left arm behind Clint, palm down on the bench just on the outer side of Clint’s left thigh. Steve reached over his own midsection to start sketching lines out on Clint’s paper where Clint held the sketching book in his hands. Clint heard and felt the skritching of Steve’s pencil, but couldn’t focus on anything else other than that sound and the feeling of Steve’s hair brushing his jawline. Steve was so close to him, and oh, Clint wanted to bury his face in Steve’s golden hair and turn his face upward and wanted to bring their lips together-

“There,” Steve said, and he leaned the right side of his body back, leaving his left arm behind Clint’s back. Clint swallowed and met Steve’s eyes, which were searching for something in Clint’s face. 

“Steve,” Clint said, whispered really, because it was all that he could do. 

Steve licked his bottom lip, and Clint was going to die, and all Steve said was, “Yeah, Clint,” but it wasn’t a question or an inquiry. It was a statement, an affirmation, and Clint whimpered without meaning to. Steve’s eyes fluttered closed at the sound, and he straightened.

“Just do your best, okay? You’ve gotta be able to draw better than I can shoot your bow. I promise not to judge you too harshly.”

Clint drew a shaky breath, the feeling of whiplash rushing through his body, and he nodded. 

“You’re right about that, at least,” Clint said, and Steve chuckled, and they drew until the museum staff told them that the museum was closing for the night. 

*

Something had tickled the recesses of Clint’s mind when he and Steve had been looking at one painting in particular during their museum trip. It was a scenic acrylic landscape, with beach sands and ocean water, and the water had been so bright blue that at first Clint had been reminded of the color of Steve’s eyes, but the longer he had looked the more that _thing_ tickled inside of his brain, and he decided that no, that wasn’t right. Steve’s eyes never made him feel uncomfortable, or scared. 

Clint should have known, in hindsight, when Steve shook him awake at 2:45 in the morning later that night, that he was going to have a nightmare that evening. He had only ever seen that shade of blue one other time, and it had been when Loki had taken his mind to play with. His vision had been stained with the color of that painted ocean for days afterward. His grief was tinged with it, that particular shade, and Clint couldn’t believe that he hadn’t put two and two together. 

_That’s the danger of joy and comfort,_ Clint thought to himself upon waking, Steve standing over him somehow looking concerned and in complete control all at once. 

Clint’s heart was pounding, and he could feel that his sheets were wet with sweat. His chest heaved, and his throat was raw, and shame flooded his face when he realized that he must have been screaming. Steve was trying to say something, but Clint couldn’t make out the shape of his mouth in the dim light of the moon filtering in through his window. 

“Sorry, sorry. Can you, my hearing aids?” Clint asked, though he didn’t know how loud he asked, his throat burning like sandpaper. Steve paused immediately and gathered them off of the bedside table for Clint, who popped them in and sat up in bed. The blankets fell down and pooled around his waist. Steve’s eyes widened. 

“God, Clint, you’re soaked,” was the first thing that Clint heard him say, and though he looked composed, Steve’s voice was strained. “You started screaming out of nowhere and I’m sorry if I invaded your privacy by coming in here, but I couldn’t just listen to you. You sounded like you were in pain, looked like you were having a fit, a seizure…” Steve’s voice stopped, corked in his throat, and it was way, way too early (late?) for this shit. 

“No, it’s fine. You’re fine, I’m fine, it’s all fine. Just, I never really dealt with anything the right way after New York, after Loki, and sometimes that shit just pops right back up,” Clint explained, wishing he had a glass of water. Steve nodded, and the understanding on his face cut Clint deeply. He didn’t want Steve to look like he understood so thoroughly, but how could he not?

“Thank you for waking me up,” Clint said honestly, making sure his eyes were locked onto Steves. “For a while afterward I had Kate stay with me, Bishop, you met her once or twice. She would always wake me up, and then in the tower it was JARVIS, then the one that Tony just made. What’s her name?”

“Friday, I think,” Steve replied quickly, and Clint nodded. That sounded right. 

“Yeah. Sorry you had to see it, but thanks for getting me out of it.”

Steve shook his head, looked up at the ceiling and heaved a sigh. “No apologies needed,” he said, and then stood up. Clint’s heart started to beat faster, and he reached out toward Steve, gripping his wrist. 

“If it’s not too much to ask, I’m not gonna be able to sleep anytime soon. You?” Clint asked, feeling selfish but still too freaked out to care. 

Steve shook his head. “Fuck no. What did you have in mind?”

Clint felt a smile tug at his lips. He would never get used to it, Steve Rogers swearing so casually, so naturally. He loved it. He loved Steve. 

“I don’t know, really. Uh, it’s too balls cold for a run. Any ideas?”

Steve thought for a moment, and then a look came across his face, something nostalgic and beautiful and aching. 

“Get dressed if you want to. Meet me in the kitchen?”

Clint nodded and flung his blanket off, his flannel pajama bottoms sticking to his tacky skin. “You got it, sir.”

Steve groaned and started to walk out the door. “Don’t call me sir when you’re all wet and half-naked, Barton,” he called behind his shoulder, and Clint nearly fell over where he stood, mouth agape. 

_What the FUCK was that?!_

“Don’t hurt yourself!” Steve called when he walked back past Clint’s bedroom door to head down the stairs, and he sounded awfully proud to have broken Clint. 

_That. Devious. Asshole._

When Clint made his way downstairs a few minutes later, having changed his boxers and pj pants and adding his favorite hoodie to the mix, Steve was in the kitchen, ingredients, mixing bowls, spoons and other random assortments of things strewn about the counter. The overhead light was turned on, and the scene looked surreal, like Steve was on display himself. Music was playing from Steve’s phone and without a word, Clint grabbed the phone from the counter and hooked it into his speaker dock. Steve had an eclectic taste in music, to say the least, and at that moment early 90’s Green Day was playing in the kitchen. Clint couldn’t believe his life. 

“You wanna start slicing up these apples for me? Peeled first if you could,” Steve said, removing a colander from the sink filled with half a dozen large apples. Clint took them without a word and eyed the remaining ingredients.

“Holy jesus futzing christ, am I making an apple pie with Captain America at 3 o’clock in the fucking morning, or am I just really high right now for some reason?” Clint muttered as he began to slice the apples. Steve laughed, and it was one of Clint’s favorites; hardy and loud. 

“Maybe you’ll never know,” Steve joked as he started measuring out the flour for the crust. They worked in silence, listening to the music for a little while, before Steve offered, “My Ma used to make a killer pie, especially when I was sick. Said it helped her relax, said when you make food with love and care it helps you feel loved and cared for.”

The words hung between them, and Clint was overwhelmed all at once. 

“Sounds like your Ma was quite a lady,” he said finally, turning his neck to see Steve smile. 

*

They had apple pie and vanilla ice cream for breakfast at the crack of dawn, and when Steve added a spray of whipped cream and a drizzle of both honey and caramel to his own, Clint could only kick him under the table and shake his head in mock disgust. Steve trapped Clint’s kicking leg with both of his ankles, and that’s how they remained for the rest of their meal, spoons clinking and limbs tangled together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bingo Square: Nightmares


	7. Chapter 7

Kate showed up unannounced on a Wednesday, which was coincidentally the first accumulating snowfall of the year. Big, swollen flakes had been falling silently and quickly from the sky since before they had woken, and Steve was salting the steps of the porch while Clint worked on adding weight to the bed of the truck. Steve noticed it first, the sound of the approaching vehicle, and when he brought it to Clint's attention a broad grin stretched across Clint's face.

"It's gotta be Kate. She hates taking care of Lucky in the winter, says she's gonna get frostbite because he takes too long to decide where to do his business. Have you ever met my dog?" Clint knew the answer was no, because when would that have happened, but was delighted all the same when Steve responded.

"No! There's going to be a dog here? For the whole winter?" Steve sounded cautiously giddy. 

Clint squinted a bit, his stellar vision giving him the ability to see the "Hawkeye" license plate on the front of the car. “Looks that way.”

Steve put the bag of salt down on the bottom stair and stepped up to stand beside Clint. They watched Kate approach together, and Steve was practically vibrating.

“You that excited about a dog bein’ here?” Clint asked, trying to sound a bit teasing, if not nonchalant, even though he felt like something important was happening without his knowledge. 

Steve looked over at him, blue eyes wide. “Are you kidding me? I love dogs. They’re so loyal, and loving, and brave. This is an unexpected Christmas present. I’ve never had a dog of my own before.”

Clint nudged him with his elbow as Kate parked the car a few strides away, killing the engine.

“You seem to forget that this particular dog is already claimed by not one Hawkeye, but two.”

Steve rolled his eyes, _fuck that’s cute why is that so cute_. “Fine. I’m excited that we’re going to have a dog at home for a while. Better?”

And Steve walked away, toward Kate who had exited the car and was working on getting Lucky out of the back, completely oblivious to how he had just blown Clint’s mind to smithereens. 

_”...we’re going to have a dog at home for awhile._ We’re _going to have a dog_ at home _for a while.”_

Clint was going to be put in an early grave and if he had to do it with his dying breath, he would have the words “Death by Domesticity” chiseled into his headstone. He wanted nothing more than to drag Steve back into the house, tell Kate to drop the dog off and just go (he missed her, he really did, really), and have The Talk with Steve. The Talk about how he wanted to burst out of his own body whenever Steve touched him, or casually flirted with him, or cooked him a meal. The Talk about how he wanted to rip off Steve’s clothes and devour every inch of him with his mouth and fingers until Steve forgot the words to the Pledge of Allegiance. The Talk about how hearing Steve refer to them as a collective and refer to Clint’s house as home made Clint want to rip Steve open, crawl inside of him and never leave.

But Clint couldn’t do that, because within seconds he had an armful of a one-eyed pizza dog and the perfect view of Kate sassing Captain America.

“So what, you live here now? Good luck with that. Clint’s an awful roommate,” Kate was saying as Clint got closer, keeping one hand on Lucky’s head. “He’s an even worse landlord, so hopefully he’s not charging you rent.”

Steve laughed and Clint groaned. “It’s nice to see you too, Hawkeye. How’s Bed Stuy under your watchful eye? Still standing or did you finally light the place on fire?”

Kate shrugged and walked up to Clint, hugging him quickly but tightly. “It’s fine, old man. Got a couple of folks trying to skip out on the rent, but what else is new. You getting my emails about the haps in the building?”

Clint nodded and noticed Steve following the conversation with his eyes, interested. “Oh, right,” Clint said. “I don’t know if you know or remember, but I kinda own this apartment building? It’s where I was whenever I wasn’t at the Tower or. You know. With you Avenging and whatnot.”

Steve nodded. “I remember. Not too far in Brooklyn from where Buck and I grew up for the most part. And Ms. Bishop, you’re taking care of it with Clint gone?”

Kate nodded and leaned against Clint’s side. Steve’s eyes flicked to where Clint and Kate’s bodies met, where Clint had wrapped an arm around Kate’s back. Steve looked away quickly, but Clint had noticed. 

“Yeah, I am. It basically runs itself, though, now that Clint actually pays up for a maintenance crew to come out when we need them. Guess you got bored of Avenging and fixing radiators?” The question was aimed at Clint. 

“You could say that. Just needed a break, needed some air, you know?”

Steve and Kate both nodded silently, and Lucky bounded away, flouncing through the layer of snow that was starting to grow on the ground. 

“Well, you wanna make me some cocoa, fine host of mine? My heat’s busted up in the car and I won’t have Lucky’s nasty ass dog breath to keep me warm on the way back, so I figured I can maybe grab a thermos and go?”

Clint nodded, using his arm to steer Kate around toward the house. He looked back to see if Steve was following, in time to see Lucky come up and drop a rogue tennis ball at Steve’s feet. Steve looked up, his eyes pleading. 

“Yeah, man, go for it. He’ll love you forever,” Clint called, watching as Steve grinned and leaned down for the ball before chucking it clear across the property. Lucky took off, and Steve huffed out a breath of laughter, the warmth of it steaming in front of his face. _I’ll love you forever._

“Oh! Hey, Rogers!” Kate called out, and Steve snapped to attention. 

“Ma’am?”

“If you ever call me Ms. Bishop or ma’am again, I’ll shoot clear through your shield. You live with Clint, you’re family, like it or not. Call me Kate or Hawkeye. Good?”

Oh, but Clint really adored the other Hawkeye, down to his toes. 

Steve’s face reddened but Clint could tell that he was pleased, that he somehow felt Kate’s approval from where it radiated off of her. “Yeah, we’re good. Call me Steve, ma….Kate.”

Kate nodded and held the door open for Clint, who followed her inside, leaving Steve and Lucky to their snow-covered fetching shenanigans. 

*

“So how long have you been banging the nation’s symbol of freedom?”

Clint choked on his hot chocolate (okay, so it was 75% espresso, 25% hot chocolate, but it still counted because it wasn’t 100% sweet sweet bean water) and Kate snorted into her own. 

“What, you think I couldn’t practically smell that sexual tension from down the road? It was disgusting. I’m happy for you.” Kate smirked and took another sip of her drink, and Clint set down his own mug. 

“I am not… _banging Captain America,_ Kate. Christ.” Panic welled in Clint’s throat. He debated on adding an addendum to that sentence. He should have known that it would be unnecessary. 

“Oh. Huh.” Kate took another sip from her travel mug. “I digress. So, how long have you _wanted_ to bang the nation’s symbol of freedom?”

Clint groaned and rested his head in his hands, elbows on the table. “Is it that obvious?”

“Uh, yeah, Clint. To everyone with eyeballs and a modicum of intuition.”

Clint bit his lip, looked at Steve playing with Lucky outside through the window, and sighed. “Basically since he got here a few months ago. But I don’t just wanna bang him, Katie. Not that I don’t,” Clint said quickly, because, well. “But it’s a lot more than that. I wanna do...other stuff, too.”

Kate looked genuinely intrigued by now, though she tried for bored. “What kinda other stuff? Like leaving the house together, eating together, cute snuggles in bed with the morning paper?”

“Well, we’ve already left the house a few times. Errands and things. I taught him how to shoot the old recurve, and he was terrible at it, and he took me to an art museum, and we’ve cooked together a lot, actually. Just no cute snuggles or anything. But that would be,” Clint hesitated, “nice.”

Kate’s eyes were wide, and a grin spread across her face that was mischievous at best, unsettling at worst. “Holy shit,” she said, voice loud and carrying. “You’re dating Captain America.”

Clint laughed and it sounded bitter even to his own ears. “Yeah, right. I can admit that I wish, but that’s not what’s happening.”

Now Kate glared at him like he was stupid, or had grown a second head. “Clint. Hawkeye. My favorite idiot. He took you to an art museum. You share a house and cook together. You taught him how to shoot the recurve that you still won’t let me even touch, you bastard. You look at him like the sun shines outta that beautiful ass and he was ogling you like you invented hot dogs and the fourth of July.”

“You know,” Steve said from behind Clint, and Clint swung around so fast that a muscle in his neck tweaked unpleasantly, “that’s an awful stereotype. I don’t even like hot dogs and my birthday is in December.”

_ohgodohgod how long has he been standing there? Oh, fuck...wait...who doesn’t like hot dogs? And wait wait wait…_

“December?” Both Clint and Kate said simultaneously, and Steve laughed from where he was leaning against the dining room door frame. _Fucking ninja. Big, burly ninja._

“Yep. I don’t know who decided my birthday was the fourth of July, but they were sorely mistaken. All the better, I prefer holiday music over fireworks all the same.”

He sounded so _fine_ and unbothered by what Kate had been saying that Clint was afraid to say anything else, lest he break whatever fragile tension was living between the three of them in the room. Maybe Steve would leave it alone and take Lucky back outside. 

“So Steve, were you also painfully unaware that the two of you have been dating?” Kate asked, and Clint slowly turned back around to shoot Kate a glare that would have murdered a weaker person. Clint heard Steve clear his throat and shuffle his feet, and Clint wanted to sink through the wood of the floor and die. 

“I guess I would say that it’s news to me?” Steve said, tentatively, the questioning inflection coming across as uncertain and gentle. 

It was too much. Clint couldn’t have this conversation right now, with either or them, and it was so _stupid_ , so _juvenile_ to boil down the feelings that he had for Steve into terms such as ‘banging’ or ‘dating’ and Clint felt like he was going to have a panic attack if he didn’t get out of the room because he was drowning, in humiliation and want and fear and love.

“Always good to see you, Katie-Kate,” Clint said, whispering though he hadn’t meant to. He stood up, leaving his mug on the table, and walked around to plant a kiss on the top of Kate’s head. “Can you feed the mutt before you leave? Bowl and food in the pantry. And text me when you make it back to Brooklyn?”

Kate’s mouth fell open and she clamped it shut. “It’s fine,” Clint said, smiling, anxiety rising like a flood in his chest. “I’m gonna go upstairs for a bit. Thanks for bringing him.” Kate only nodded, and Clint turned to leave the room.

“Clint-” Steve started as Clint edged his way past his broad body in the doorway. 

“Don’t. It’s fine. Just. Not right now, okay?” Clint asked, eyes trained on the floor, and Steve nodded and scooched over the let Clint through. Lucky was on the other side of Steve and he followed Clint instantly, going so far as to clamber into bed with him as he planted himself face forward into his mattress. Clint focused on breathing, on swallowing his panic attack before it swallowed him, and within minutes he was fast asleep, midmorning be damned. 

*

When Clint opened his eyes it was to darkness, dog breath, and feeling overheated because Lucky was a futzing furnace. Also, there was a knock on the door, and Clint felt like he had been flung back to months earlier when Steve had woken him from his nap on the couch, rapping lightly on the front door like a stranger. 

“Clint,” Steve’s voice came from the other side of his bedroom door. “Clint, I need to. I need something. The power’s out, and it’s really cold, it’s so cold and I need. Can I come in? Please, can I come in?”

There were no second thoughts or moments of hesitation before Clint sprung into action, launching himself out of bed, taking the two strides across the room and pulling open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bingo Squares: Kate Bishop, Lucky, Didn't Know They Were Dating


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the rating change. There is a 99.999% chance that it'll be bumped up to E when chapter 9 is posted.

“Hey, whoa,” Clint said lowly as Steve practically fell into his arms the moment the door was opened. “Steve, what’s wrong? What do you need?” The size difference made Clint feel awkward, the way that Steve was trying to shrink so that Clint could support him breaking his heart in two. 

“There’s no heat. I don’t know what’s wrong with the damn g-g-generator,” Steve explained, teeth chattering against Clint’s hair. “I fell asleep and then I woke up and it’s cold. I thought...Clint, I thought…”

“You thought you were back in the ice,” Clint said, puzzle pieces falling neatly into place in his mind. He arched upward and wrapped his arms around Steve’s back, rubbing his palm up and down Steve’s spine. Steve still felt warm through his t-shirt, emitting heat like the furnace that he was, but Clint knew firsthand that the mind had an uncanny ability to traumatize the body. 

“Hey, I’ve got you,” Clint said, trying to sound soothing but not really knowing if it worked. “I’ve got you, and hey, I’ve got a ton of blankets in here. You ever been a human burrito before?”

Steve choked out a laugh and _fuck, those are his tears in my hair, oh god I have to fix it, I’ve gotta_ shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. Been a popsicle, never a burrito.”

“Alright big guy. Come over here, let me roll you up?” Clint made sure to form it into a question, to let Steve know that he had the freedom to tell Clint to fuck right on off, but Steve didn’t. Instead, Steve let Clint lead him over to his bed. Steve sat down awkwardly on the side of the bed, and Clint could see his face begin to pinken from the light of the moon bouncing off of the snow outside. 

“Hey, none of that shame bullshit. You’re broken, I’m broken. You might have a serum that I don’t, but you’re still a human being, Steve, so let me take care of you. I don’t got an awesome apple pie recipe but I’m pretty sure I can put together a pretty rad Captain America smothered burrito.” As Clint spoke, he sank to his knees on the floor in front of Steve and gently removed Steve’s slippers and socks from his feet. Both were soaked with sweat, and his feet were clammy. Without thinking, Clint blew gently on the tops of them in an effort to help them dry, and Steve drew in a sharp breath above him. 

“There. Now you won’t gross up my bed. I want you to take this,” Clint said, standing and reaching over for one of his soft fleece blankets, “and wrap it around yourself, like a superhero cape, a la Thor for example.” Steve actually laughed at that, and his eyes looked like they were becoming drier, and the pain in Clint’s chest started to ease. Steve followed Clint’s directions, and Clint grabbed him gently by his shoulders and helped him lay down on his side. Clint ignored the way seeing Steve in his bed, his hair sprawling across his pillow, made his heartbeat triple, tickling his chest. 

“Alright. Then this bad boy here. This here? Best comforter in the world. It’s filled with goose feathers or some shit, I don’t know. I stole it from Tony. I’m gonna tuck you in and I want you to roll up in it, okay? Kinda like a mummy, but maybe keep your arms out because, well. I know I don’t like to feel trapped.” Clint tried to keep the vulnerability out of his voice. He was probably failing, but who the fuck cared at that point?

It was almost fun, and Clint couldn’t help but let out a few chuckles at the sight of Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America himself, rolling himself up in Clint’s comforter in the middle of his bed. Steve settled when he was properly burritoed, and Clint stood straight to admire his handiwork. 

“Not bad, Steve. Not bad at all. You feelin’ warmer yet?”

Steve nodded after a moment and opened his mouth. He closed it, opened it again, and closed it once more. 

Clint shook his head. “Don’t play that. It’s too late for that, right? What do you need?”

Steve closed his eyes and swallowed; the sound filled the room. 

“Do you think we can share? The bed, I mean.” HIs voice was small and Clint was bursting at the seams. 

“You tryin’ to get me into bed, Rogers?” Clint joked, defaulting to humor as he typically did when spiraling into an emotional panic. This was getting ridiculous. Too many emotions in one twenty-four hour period. It couldn’t be good for his health. 

Steve didn’t smile. Instead, he looked openly at Clint standing above him, his big blue eyes shining in the dimly lit bedroom. 

“I’m tryin’ to get you close to me, Barton. But it’s not an order,” Steve tacked on the last part with haste, and Clint rolled his eyes. 

“You big dork. I know it’s not an order, Jesus. If you’ll be okay for a few, I can go hit the generator and then I can come back?” Steve nodded, and even though Clint wanted nothing more than to hurdle himself into that bed, he pulled on his slippers and made his way out of the bedroom, leaving Steve alone to hopefully start to get warm. 

*

“So the generator’s working, I dunno exactly what I did to fuck it up when I installed it but I turned it on and off a few times and she kicked on like a dream. House should warm back up pretty quick.” Clint closed his bedroom door behind himself out of habit and kicked off his slippers. Steve was nearly where Clint had left him, only far less burritoed under Clint’s two blankets. Rather, he was lying beneath them as a normal person would, and he lifted one side of the blankets up on the side closest to Clint. 

Clint’s mind blanked as he took in the scene before him. Steve, in boxers and a soft cotton t-shirt, inviting Clint into his own bed in the middle of the night, a blizzard roaring outside and Lucky sleeping in the hallway of their home. He wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve the absolute gloriousness of that moment, but fuck it if he was going to waste it. 

Clint walked up to the bed and stripped off his socks. Steve didn’t say anything, simply watched, looking far better than he had when Clint had left him. Clint’s hands moved down to unzip his jeans, the ones he had fallen asleep in earlier, but it felt too presumptuous. 

“It’s okay,” Steve whispered, his voice sounding hoarse. “I don’t mind.” And so Clint peeled off his jeans and crawled into bed, boxer briefs and his own t-shirt keeping him just as covered as Steve. 

For the first few minutes after Clint crawled under the blankets, they simply lay there, side by side. Clint could feel the heat of Steve’s skin where their shoulders met, the same where their thighs touched as well as they lay on their backs staring up at the ceiling. Clint’s heart was pounding and he could hear Steve breathing rapidly, little shallow breaths. 

_Aw, anxious Steve, no._

“Hey,” Clint said lowly, and when Steve turned his head on the pillow to look at him Clint responded by reaching his hand beneath the blanket and finding Steve’s. Steve’s fingers opened easily for Clint, and he clasped their hands together. Steve squeezed tightly, twice. Clint squeezed back. Steve moved his right foot over and crossed his ankle over Clint’s left, and Clint struggled to breathe. 

“C’mere,” Clint managed, and he turned his body toward Steve, unclasping their hands and guiding Steve to his side. Clint moved the blankets that were dipping far enough to create a barrier between their bodies and scooched forward until his chest was flush with Steve’s back, Steve’s hips aligning with Clint’s own. Clint draped his arm over Steve’s chest and Steve found his hand easily, holding it above his heart which seemed to be going into a conniption fit, same as Clint’s. 

“Better?” Clint whispered, and Steve nodded. Clint didn’t know what to say then, didn’t know where they stood, only knew that they seemed to be standing there together. 

“Clint?” Steve said, a tremor in his voice. Clint nodded and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the back of Steve’s neck. Steve shuddered and leaned back slightly as though he could possibly get closer to Clint than they already were. Clint felt like he was outside of his body, the moments stretching around him forever, and so many thoughts came into his head that he struggled to keep up. Steve in the field. Steve in his uniform. Steve never once asking for Clint to change who he was, how he lived, how he thought. Clint thought about what Phil would think, if he would be hurting or if he would be happy. 

_Don’t be an idiot, Barton. He would want you to be happy, and Christ knows if he could choose anyone for you aside from himself it would be Steve._

Steve taking a deep breath brought Clint back into the moment, and he started to rub small circles into Steve’s chest with his thumb, hoping that it would encourage him to continue. 

“I need...can you take your shirt off? I want to take mine off, but if you can, I think your skin...as much of it as possible.” And Steve wasn’t speaking in coherent sentences but Clint didn’t mind. He had his shirt up and over his head in a heartbeat, tossed into the corner of his room, and he helped Steve remove his own, chucking it directly on top of where Clint’s had landed. When they realigned, miles of skin coming together, Clint bit his lip to keep from gasping but Steve wasn’t as keen to keep his opinions to himself. 

“Ugh, Clint, Jesus,” Steve whimpered, pulling Clint’s arm back over his chest. Steve’s voice sent an electrical shock through Clint’s body and he tried to move himself back, just a few inches, his body responding to Steve in a way that he didn’t want Steve to notice. 

Steve reached back instead, covering Clint’s hip with his large hand, and pulled Clint back. Clint groaned at the friction and Steve’s breath came out in a stuttering staccato. 

“Don’t hide from me,” Steve pleaded, and he craned his neck to look back at Clint, who raised himself up so that he could look down at Steve. “I’m tired of hiding from you, Clint. I want you, so much that I ache with it, and sometimes I feel like I need you. Do you want me?”

Leave it to Steve to throw it into the world, this _thing_ they had been dancing around, building toward, weaving into reality. Clint shook his head and spoke quickly before Steve could misunderstand. 

“Fuck no, Steve, I don’t want you. I need you. Need you all the time, all the fuckin’ time.”

“Oh,” Steve breathed, and he turned his body, the motion of it shaking the bed on its frame. “Oh, thank God Clint, thank God. I’ve been losing my mind, you don’t know what kind of torture this has been for me Clint, honey, God.”

Clint’s gut twisted, and he couldn’t tell up from down, left from right, his hand from Steve’s rib cage, Steve’s voice from the fantasies he had lived a thousand times in his head. 

“I think I’ve got an idea, babe,” Clint replied, and when Steve laughed it was loud and wet. Clint leaned his head forward until his forehead was resting against Steve’s, their breath mingling together, and Clint wanted to devour this man so much that it hurt. 

“What do you want, Steve?” Clint asked, and there was a flash of fear in those bright eyes, hiding a brain that Clint could see was whirring at a million miles per second. 

“What can I ask for?” Steve whispered back, and the innocence of the question lit Clint’s body on fire, flames threatening to burn down the house around them. 

“Anything, Steve. You can ask me for anything.”

Steve smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bingo square: Huddling for Warmth


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fuck, this is the last bingo square. 13 squares in one fic. With a pairing that I didn't even ship (please notice the past tense). 
> 
> This is the smut! Heed the rating change. I am hella self-conscious about writing smut and therefore there are likely some funky errors; I'll beta this eventually but for now I need to hide in the woods until I feel okay enough to show my face with the last chapter. 
> 
> One chapter after this! And I've been looking forward to the very last chapter since I started writing this fic, so I hope you stick around :) Avoid looking at updated tags for the next chapter to avoid potential spoilers. 
> 
> Thanks, y'all. You have my heart.

It was the on the cusp of being too much as Clint slowly maneuvered over Steve, inches away from being draped over his entire body, Clint’s smaller frame caging Steve in beneath him. Steve moved with Clint, shuffled until Clint’s knees were on either side of his thighs, Clint’s arms holding his body up where his elbows rested just above Steve’s shoulders. There were barely any points of contact, but they were so close to touching _everywhere_ that Clint shook with it. 

The moonlight that washed over them in Clint’s bed did nothing to hide the shining blue of Steve’s eyes or the rapid pulse in his throat. Steve’s mouth hung open slightly and he looked up at Clint in what could only be disbelief, and Clint wanted to laugh. 

“Why are you looking at me all surprised, you beautiful motherfucker?” Clint teased. “Like you’ve not had every living creature who’s crossed your path melt on eye contact."

Steve smiled and swallowed, shaking his head minutely. “Maybe,” he said lowly, and had his voice always been so deep? “But never anyone I wanted as badly as I want you.”

A thrill shot through Clint’s spine and he pushed away all self-doubt that had started to snake its way into his head. For a brief moment, he entertained the thought that it was Loki beneath his impatient body, fucking with him again from the inside out. He dismissed the thought, banished it to the recesses of his mind. Loki could never feign this earnesty, this pained ache that bled from Steve’s words. Steve sounded like Clint felt; wounded from the desire coursing through his veins, drowning in immeasurable levels of affection. 

“Steve,” Clint shook his head, lowering his face to hover close, so close that he could hear when Steve licked his own bottom lip to wet it. “You can’t say it if you don’t mean it. I know you had...someone. Someone who meant so much to you, and you lost her.”

Steve’s hands found their way to Clint’s thighs and Clint sighed softly as Steve’s warm fingers caressed both legs from his knees and beneath the hem of his boxer briefs, where they rested just below his hips. 

“You lost someone too,” Steve said gently, and Clint wanted to tear him apart. “Is that supposed to mean that we never get that again?”

“You loved her.” It was a statement from Clint, not a question, because the tragic love story of Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter was literally written in history books. 

“I did. I always will. ‘n I’m pretty sure I’ll always love you, too.”

The words were like acid splashed all over Clint’s body, a hot and fiery beast finding its way to the heart of him, and the air left his lungs all at once, because _Steve wouldn’t lie to me._

_He loves me. Aw, fuck, Steve._

“God, Steve, I need something here, please, please, what do you want, anything-”

Steve responded to Clint’s pleading with a whisper that managed to sound like a command meant for an artillery of men rather than one. 

“Clint. Kiss me.”

Clint didn’t know if he whimpered before or after he moved to fill the last inch of space between them, just that he swallowed a lost sound from Steve the moment their parted lips touched. Steve tasted sweeter than Clint had allowed himself to imagine, though he had expected nothing less than to taste a buttery, sugary concoction on Steve’s tongue. Even better, Steve’s warm and wet mouth tasted like honey with a hint of toothpaste mint, and Clint wanted to drink the flavor of him, wanted to sustain himself on it. Clint groaned, couldn’t help himself, when Steve sank his tongue into Clint’s mouth, filling him from below, and it was Steve who bucked his hips first, turning the sweetest kiss that Clint had ever had into something of a molten frenzy in an instant. 

“Christ,” Clint gasped, his head snapping upward at the feeling of Steve between his legs, hard and warm, “Steve, fuck. Keep telling me what you want baby, please.”

Steve responded by pulling his hands out from beneath the fabric of Clint’s briefs and running them both upward, straightening Clint’s body as he did so until Clint was straddling Steve, sitting spine straight. Steve ran his hands up and down Clint’s sides and he couldn’t stop _looking,_ his mouth spit slick and darkened in the dim light. 

_I did that. I did that to Steve, with my mouth, and fuck if he doesn’t look like he needed it._

“I,” Steve started, and Clint ground his hips downward, simply for the fun and sensation of it, and Steve emitted a strangled sound. 

“Ooh, God, Clint, I don’t know. This is, I mean I’ve never, so I don’t know-”

Clint felt himself smiling. “Are you about to let me pop your queer cherry, Steven?” Even teasing, he was breathless, his erection aching to be freed, to be touched. 

Steve huffed out a laugh, and suddenly his hands were no longer on Clint’s body and _aw, no, come back,_ but rather covering his own face. 

“No. I mean yes. But I’m actually telling you that I’m about to let you pop every cherry of mine?”

Oh. 

_Oh._

“ _Oh,_ ” Clint breathed, realization sinking in. “I-thank you, for telling me that. It’s important that you did, babe.” Clint reached down to remove Steve’s hands from his face. Steve’s cheeks were pink and he looked embarrassed. 

“I don’t want you to stop, please, I want this with you, more than I’ve ever wanted anything, unless that makes you not want me-”

Clint leaned forward and devoured Steve’s mouth with a searing kiss, one that was reciprocated instantly. “No, Steve,” Clint said when they separated, leaning back to quickly divest himself of his boxer briefs. “It’s important because I know I gotta make it extra good for you.” Clint inched the tips of his fingers beneath the hem of Steve’s boxers and Steve’s hips rose without command, and the arousal in Clint’s body skyrocketed at his willingness to let Clint strip him. Clint leaned back, sitting on Steve’s thighs, and Steve pushed himself up onto his elbows, and they took their fill of one another, breathing heavily, and Clint’s mouth watered. 

“Oh, fuck,” Steve said, and Clint’s dick twitched at the heady sound of it but he couldn’t peel his eyes away from Steve, thick and long and uncut. 

“Oh, my sweet thing,” Clint said, moving his hips forward, the tip of his own cut cock rubbing against the silken skin of Steve, whose head dropped back onto the pillow. “You are gonna be so sensitive. I’m going to ruin you, you know that?”

Steve’s hips twitched and he started nodding furiously. “I know, I know you are, you already have, God Clint, I want everything from you. Will you just, will you tell me what you’re going to do so I know? I wanna hear you talk. Always wanna hear you talk.” The Brooklyn was so strong in Steve’s voice, dripping with it, and Clint would consider himself lucky if he didn’t come just from Steve admitting that he liked the sound of Clint’s voice, something that most people tired of quickly. 

“I can do that,” Clint promised, and he began to move backward on the bed. “If anything sounds not good, you tell me to stop. If anything doesn’t feel good, you tell me to stop. If I’m hurting you, or you need a minute, or you change your mind, you tell me to stop Steve. Do you understand?”

Steve just kept nodding along, not pausing. Clint chuckled. “I need to hear you say it before I suck your cock, Steve.”

And Steve cried out like he was in pain at that. “Yes, yes I’ll stop you, please, please, please-”

Clint laid on his stomach between Steve’s spread legs and wet his lips before licking a wet stripe onto his hand. “Yes, sir,” he said, and he leaned forward to lap the tip of Steve with his tongue, pulling back what little foreskin was covering the base of the head. Steve whined, and the sound turned into a deep groan of pleasure when Clint wrapped his mouth around Steve’s cock with wet suction, moving down the shaft little by little. Steve was making small mewling sounds and Clint smiled at the sound of Steve bunching bedding into his fists. Clint raised his head slowly and wrapped his hand around the base of Steve before twirling his tongue around Steve’s frenulum. Steve went completely silent but bucked his hips. Prepared, Clint moved upward with him and removed his mouth, an obscene popping sound filling the room as he did so. Clint used his hand to jerk Steve slowly.

“You’re so eager,” Clint commented, “so responsive, fuck. Look at you, and I’ve barely started.”

Steve didn’t say anything, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. 

“If you want to fuck my mouth, honey, it’s yours for the taking,” Clint said, and Steve bucked again in his hand.

“Christ, Christ,” Steve repeated, and Clint couldn’t help but grin. 

“Clint is fine, thanks.” And Steve laughed, and who knew that sex with Captain America could be so sweet and fun, and fuck Clint was dying but he was okay with it. Clint lowered his mouth back into position and performed a few quick sucks, pulling off after only a few seconds. 

“Steve, look at me?” Clint requested, and Steve’s eyes flew open and he raised his head to see Clint gazing at him between his legs, his cock resting against Clint’s lips. Clint knew full well what he looked like, and he reached up for one of Steve’s hands, placing it on the back of his head. 

“I want you to see yourself, okay? I want you to watch while you fuck me,” Clint said, and Steve’s eyes were black now, and Clint’s mouth greedily lapped up the dribble of precome that leaked generously. Clint left his mouth loosely open around Steve’s head, and Steve started off slowly, sinking into Clint’s mouth a quarter of an inch before lowering his hips back down, and repeating. Clint stayed patient, as patient as he could, and Steve grew a bit more adventurous, placing himself deeper into Clint’s mouth, hitting the back of his tongue and fuck but he tasted so good, and Clint was rarely entirely selfless. He lowered his head quickly, until Steve hit the back of his throat, and Steve swore under his breath but held Clint there with his hand and started to shallowly thrust. 

The first time Clint gagged he also moaned, spurring Steve onward, and within a few minutes Steve’s thrusts, though still thoughtful, were becoming erratic, and Clint could tell he was close. Clint raised his head up a little and Steve instantly dropped his hand from Clint’s head and stilled. 

“Steve, have you ever fingered yourself?” Clint asked blatantly, and Steve was nearly incoherent.

“Long time ago...back before…”

“Did you like it?”

“When I could reach this spot, yeah, it felt, it was-”

Clint nodded, smiled. “Any objections to me using my fingers on you?”

Steve shook his head back and forth, and goddamn, Clint really had broken him. 

“Alright, sweet babe, but you gotta throw me some lube, it’s in the bedside drawer. Yeah, just there.”

Steve acted instantly and Clint kept him hard with long, wet strokes with his calloused fingers. When Steve handed him the lube Clint reached for it and Steve dropped the plastic bottle, taking Clint’s hand instead, pulling Clint’s body on top of his own, attacking his mouth.

“Oh, oh, you taste like me, uhnnn,” Steve said, awe in his voice and Clint was in heaven. 

Steve continued to respond to Clint beautifully, from the moment that Clint’s finger breached his body until he was panting as Clint fucked him with three fingers and took his cock back into his mouth. 

“Clint, I need to come, I’m going to come, I can’t hold on,” Steve warned and Clint nearly rolled his eyes at how gentlemanly Steve sounded about the whole thing. 

“I want you to come in my mouth, babe, if that’s okay with you,” Clint said. Steve choked, and Clint replaced his mouth and within seconds Steve was pulsing heavily, thick and hot mouthfuls that Clint swallowed, revered, worshipped. Steve’s taste was strong and bitter, stronger and more bitter than Clint’s favorite coffee, and Clint wanted to hold him inside forever. 

“Jesus, Steve, Jesus,” Clint whimpered, removing his fingers from Steve’s body and resting his forehead just above Steve’s belly button. They were both sweating, and Steve’s chest was heaving as though he was experiencing actual human exertion. Clint felt a jolt of pride swell in his chest. He shifted uncomfortably, painfully hard by this point, leaking onto his sheets. 

“Shouldn’t I be the one praising you? Because holy Hell, Clint. I’ve never felt anything like that before. That was...that was.”

Clint laughed. “Praise me all you want. I was just thinking that I can’t wait for the first time you come inside me, about how I wanna hold you in me as long as I can.” 

Steve fell silent then, and _oh fuck, was that a weird thing to say?_ , but when Clint looked up Steve almost looked like he could cry. 

“I was thinking something along those lines,” Steve said almost shyly. “And you need to be taken care of. Can I take care of you?”

Clint’s entire body shuddered. “Fuck yeah you can. That, uh. That sounds awesome. I am in violent agreement with you taking care of me.”

Steve laughed and did roll his eyes at that. Steve sat up, limbs pliant and slow moving, and he and Clint switched places without a word until Steve was sitting astride Clint, just above his groin. Steve was heavy and the weight of him was grounding, and Clint was fairly certain that he was going to pass out with how much he fucking _needed_ Steve to touch him. 

“Do you trust me?” Steve asked him, leaning forward for a quick kiss. Clint nodded instantly. 

“With my life,” he said, and it was so easily true. 

“Good,” Steve said. “Remember, I’ve had the serum. I can’t carry diseases. Did you see that in my file?”

Clint nodded. “‘Course. I wouldn’t have blown you without a condom otherwise. And I know you’ve seen mine, you have to sign off on my physicals.”

Steve nodded, and went in for another kiss, this one gentler, and Clint felt his own eyes become wet and bright as his body was flooded with endearment and affections and-

“I love you too,” Clint said, just as Steve leaned back, taking Clint into his open and slick body. Stars exploded behind Clint’s eyes and he sucked in a lungful of air both in shock and overwhelming emotion. 

“Ahh,” Steve expressed, though it didn’t sound like pain, it sounded like he was coming home after a long day, and he rose up before coming back down, and the sight of Steve riding him, his long and muscled torso shining in the moonlight, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, the blissed-out look on his face as he took Clint inside of himself again and again was so much, so much, so much.

“Clint, you are unbelievable,” Steve was saying, and Clint tried to focus, because it seemed like he didn’t want to miss this. “You feel so good, so good, never felt this full before, Christ, I’m sorry I didn’t know before, didn’t know how perfect you were for me-”

“Fuck, Steve, nng,” Clint moaned, quickly approaching climax and Steve took that as a directive to ride him with harder, longer strokes, the sound and scent of sex filling the room and Clint was completely destroyed for anybody else ever again. 

“Say it again, love, please, tell me, and come inside me, and live there for days, Clint, just say it again.”

“Fuck, fuck, Steve, fuck, I fucking love you, don’t you ever fucking go anywhere, please, please, love you-”

“Yeah, that. That, Clint, that, love you too, aah,” and Clint toppled over the edge at the feeling of Steve’s second orgasm hitting him in the chest as he babbled from above him, and Steve stayed fully seated on Clint’s lap until Clint slipped out minutes later. 

“There’s a towel. Somewhere?” Clint mumbled, sated and made out of jelly. Steve fell over to his side and rolled them around until Steve was spooning Clint to his chest, and he pulled a blanket over the both of them. 

“I don’t mind a little mess,” Steve said, and Clint chuckled. 

“You’re as gross as I am.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Steve said, opening his mouth to say something else, interrupted by a loud creak above their heads. Both of them were silent for a moment until Steve broke the silence. 

“Ghost?”

“Ghost,” Clint confirmed, and he fell asleep in Steve’s arms.

*

“Why am I not surprised that it looks like you’ve been up for hours, and even less surprised that you managed to leave the bed without me noticing?” Clint asked the next morning as he reached around Steve to pluck one of the two steaming mugs of coffee from the counter. Steve smiled softly at him, looking freshly showered and comfortable in a pair of sweats and-

“Is that...a _Hawkeye_ hoodie?!” Clint cried out, delighted. 

Steve’s cheeks tinged pink. “Obviously. I didn’t feel like I could wear it around you, before. Seemed a bit weird. Plus, it’s like you have a monopoly on the color purple, so.” Steve shrugged and Clint snorted, sucking his mug of coffee dry before bounding up the stairs two at a time. When he came down a few minutes later, a red white and blue hoodie had been pulled over his sleep shirt. 

“Aaaaand that’s my shield. On your clothes. We’re ridiculous.” Steve nodded once with finality as he spoke, and Clint grinned in agreement. 

They ate breakfast together, sat in their usual spots across the table from one another, an open game of footsie taking place. Clint was in the middle of chewing his last bite of toast when Steve loudly made a declaration. 

“I want to come out. To the public. To everyone.”

Clint stopped chewing and he looked up in surprise. He swallowed and washed the toast down with half of a Gatorade that he so sorely needed. 

“Huh. I must have dicked you something fierce for you to want to do that already.”

Steve let out a peal of laughter and kicked Clint under the table. “Crass, and shut it. No, I just feel like it’s a responsibility of mine. I was terrified whenever I felt attracted to a man as a kid because you just didn’t hear of that. I’m pretty well known nowadays, and figure it might make a difference for some kids to know that I’m bisexual.”

Clint considered, feeling internally proud at Steve’s grasp and comfort with his own self-chosen way to express his identity, and conflicted because _damn, why hadn’t I thought of that?_

“Okay,” Clint said after a minute. “Let’s do it.”

Steve rose an eyebrow. “Let’s? As in both of us? Clint, I didn’t mean to pressure you-”

“No, you didn’t. You’re just...right? I never thought about it that way. I think it’s a great idea.” Clint flashed a smile at Steve. “How do you wanna do this? Press conference? Official statement? Pride parade float?”

Steve’s eyebrows drew together in thought. Finally, he shook his head. “No. I don’t want it to be sanitized by the PR team. Social media. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram. I’ve got all three. You?”

Clint nodded. “I like it. Everyone’s gonna flip. Let’s do it.” Both of them sat still at the table, making no move to get up. “How should we do it?” Clint followed up. “We should probably take off each other’s merch otherwise people will talk.”

Steve’s eyes flitted away instantly from holding Clint’s gaze to a spot on the table in front of him. His mouth closed. His jaw tightened. 

Oh. Clint had _hurt his feelings._ Well, fuck that.

“Not that I would mind them talking,” Clint said slowly, and Steve met his eyes once more. “I just didn’t know if, uh. If you would want people to know. With this being so new? Or, we haven’t really talked about what we want outta this, either. And also, I didn’t know if maybe you wanted to keep it on the down low. Not that you’re bi. Just that you’re bi...with me?”

Steve’s eyes widened the more Clint spoke, and it would have been endearing to see him go from being so pouty to being so pissed off if it wasn’t mildly intimidating. 

“First of all,” Steve spoke, and it was so matter of fact that Clint sat up straighter in his chair. “This doesn’t feel new to me. This feels old, and comfortable and inevitable. And if you wanna know what I want, I want you. Plain and simple. For as long as you’ll have me. I’m known to be loyal to a fault, in case you haven’t heard.” Clint snorted at this, and Steve’s face relaxed.

“But most of all, Clint, I know you’re a smart man, but I guess I have to spell this out for you. I’m in love with you. Severely. Cripplingly so. And there isn’t a cell in my body that feels, or will ever feel, ashamed to have you on my arm, if that’s where you want to be.”

 _What in the actual fuck did I do to deserve this?_ Clint thought to himself, and somewhere in the back of his head to could hear Phil and Steve’s voices both chewing him out over the question. 

Clint cleared his throat. “Um. Okay. So, ditto, to literally everything that you just said, and in that case, maybe we should be disgustingly sweet and domestic and cuddly and take a picture of that.”

Steve’s grin was absolutely what was illuminating the room this time around. Clint was sure of it. 

*

Two hours later, after posting the photo to both of their Instagram accounts and sharing them to both of their respective other social media accounts, Steve and Clint turned their phones off to avoid the plethora of calls they were certain that they would get. It turned out to be a great idea, as the photo of the two of them in each other’s hoodies, curled together on the couch with Steve kissing Clint’s forehead and Clint looking so entirely _happy_ , went instantly viral. 

Both posts, with their respective captions. 

**CaptRogers** To be brave is to do something important, in the face of fear. This post is not me being brave, because I am no longer afraid of who I am. I am not afraid to love who I love and to do it openly. Thank you to each and every one of you for being your unique selves; the world needs you. And thank you to **@hawkguy** for being your unique self. You’re so easy for me to love. **#bisexual #lgbtq+ #equalityandjusticeforall #queersuperhero #foolsinlove**

 **hawkguy** I’m coming out as a nondiscriminatory lover. Well, I guess I’m a little discriminatory because if you ain’t **@CaptRogers** then I’m not interested. Love you, babe. Proud of you! **#queer #lgbtq+ #myboyfriendishotterthanyourboyfriend #avengerscanbegaytoo #foolsinlove**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bingo Square: First Kiss


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so incredibly sad to be finished with this story. I was so full of doubt and stress at the thought of writing an AmeriHawk fic, but I am so incredibly grateful to have chosen that particular Bingo square because this? This was a super cathartic blast. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this last chapter. It's ridiculous and fluffy, and I love the thought of it so much. I hope you will too. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me! This is the greatest fandom community in the universe and I'm grateful for each and every one of you.

The Winter Soldier showed up at the farm in the middle of a night in April. 

The snow having melted and Steve having gone out on a few missions with some of the team had led Clint to agree that perhaps it was time to reintegrate back into the day-to-day life of Avenging. They spent March cleaning up the property, getting the house in order, and packing what few clothing items they had brought with them into their luggage in preparation to return to the city at the end of the first week in April. 

Steve was deep asleep beside Clint as the latter drifted into consciousness. To say that their final night at the farm had been tiring was an understatement; Steve could have sex all day, every day what with the serum, and both of them had enjoyed seeing just how much Clint could take before tapping out like the human that he was. That night, their last true night in their little bubble away from reality, Clint had been the one to give Steve a run for his money. Clint guessed that he would sleep in until mid-morning; Kate had picked up Lucky the week prior, and they had taken advantage of sleeping in as much as possible since then. 

It only took Clint a few seconds to realize that there was someone in the room with them, and his first instinct was to cover Steve’s naked body with a blanket as he scanned the four corners with his eyes, already adjusted to the dark. The far left corner held a figure, roughly Clint’s height, male, built, casual civilian clothes. He wore a baseball cap and a glove on his left hand. 

_Ah. Okay. Right._

Clint sat up in bed as slowly as possible, and Barnes stepped silently into the light shining through the bedroom window. Steve murmured something in his sleep and rolled over to his side before stilling once more. Both Clint and Barnes froze, staring at each other, and Clint had the fleeting thought that perhaps he should feel afraid. The fear didn’t come, not when Barnes stepped closer and extended his gloved palm to Clint, handing over his hearing aids, not when Bucky turned away toward the bedroom door as Clint slipped into a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt, and not when Clint walked close enough by Barnes that their shoulders brushed. Clint opened the door, motioned Barnes through, and closed it as silently as he could behind the two of them. 

Clint used two fingers to motion Barnes behind him as he made his way downstairs and to the kitchen, where he finally turned on a light. Barnes was quiet and observant as he watched Clint start a pot of coffee. 

“Are you like Willy Wonka up there or you want it black?” Clint asked, breaking the tentative silence. He looked up at Barnes and watched the man’s shoulders loosen ever so slightly. 

“Black. ‘m guessin’ that means Steve’s still got his sweet tooth?” Barnes sounded young, just like Steve did sometimes, and Clint reminded himself of who was truly standing in his kitchen. 

“Yeah. It’s disgusting. I’ve got an iron stomach and I can barely watch him eat. I guess he had to have a flaw somewhere, right?”

Barnes let out a small chuckle. “You mean the punk’s hard-headed assholery isn’t a flaw?”

Clint felt himself smile, the rest of the stress draining from where it had settled in his shoulders. He poured two black cups of coffee and carried them to the dining room table, setting them across from one another. Barnes followed Clint fluidly, taking his seat across from him at the table and removing his jacket and glove. The metal of his hand shone brilliantly beneath the overhead light. Clint motioned toward it.

“I get the feeling I should maybe feel threatened by that, but in reality, it’s pretty neat up close.”

Barnes’ eyes widened and he stared at Clint as though he had just burst into flames. “Neat? Wow. You really have no sense of self-preservation, do ya?”

Clint shook his head immediately and took a gulp of his coffee. “Nah. Have you seen who I’ve got up there in my bed?”

And at that, Barnes _laughed_ and Clint figured that things were gonna turn out alright. 

*

“Morning, honey. How long’ve you been awake?” Steve asked groggily, walking in front of Clint where he was sitting on the couch. Clint lifted the blanket and Steve curled up against him instantly, draping the soft fleece over his own lap as he settled. 

“Few hours,” Clint responded slowly, wondering how to handle the situation in the best way possible to prevent Steve from having a heart attack. 

“Hours?” Steve looked up at him sleepily, his hair flat on one side with a small bit of dried drool in the corner of his mouth. “Clint, it’s only six. You shoulda woken me up if you were having trouble sleeping, babe.”

“I asked him not too. Figured ya needed your beauty sleep.”

Clint felt Steve’s body go stock still where he was pressed up beside Clint, could tell that he had stopped breathing though he hadn’t yet turned his head to see Bucky walk back into the living room from the kitchen area. 

“It’s okay,” Clint whispered lowly, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s temple. “You’re okay, I’m okay, and Bucky’s okay, even if he’s shit at knowing appropriate visiting hours.”

Clint heard Bucky snort from the doorway, and that seemed to snap Steve out of the trance that he had fallen into. 

“Bucky?” Steve asked, looking first at Clint, boring his eyes into Clint’s, looking for permission to believe that Bucky was standing in the room with them. 

“Bucky, yeah. I got permission to call him that oh, about an hour ago, would you say?” Clint said, breaking eye contact with Steve to crane his neck around to look at Bucky, who was shuffling his weight back and forth on his feet anxiously. 

_Aw. Adorable Super Soldiers are adorable._

Steve leaned back and looked then, taking in the sight of Bucky standing only a few feet away. 

“Hiya, punk. Promise I come in peace. Seems we got a lot to talk about,” Bucky said, and there was a flurry of activity from Clint’s side. Steve was out of his arms and into Bucky’s so fast that Clint could barely keep up. 

“You. Jerk,” Steve said, repeating it a few times over. “I can’t believe you’re here. And you’re-” Steve stepped back, keeping Bucky at arm’s length, giving him a once over. “You’re you?”

Clint felt like he should leave the two of them to sort things out, like he was infringing on a moment far too intimate for him to deserve to witness it, but he was stuck there watching the delight on Steve’s face burn brighter by the second. 

Fuck, but Clint loved him. 

“I’m something, someone. I remember bein’ Bucky, the one you knew, and I remember being the Soldier, but I don’t really think I’m either of ‘em, anymore. The programming’s gone, I promise you this isn’t a mission. I was just...ready to see you.” 

There were more hugs after that, and joyful insults exchanged, and something burned in Clint’s chest. It was envy, he knew it was, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. He wasn’t jealous of Bucky; he and Steve had already had the discussion and Steve had made it blatantly clear that Bucky was a brother to him, never anything different. Clint figured that the envy was in seeing the moment that someone got someone back from the dead. The reversal of loss. 

As Steve and Bucky caught up with one another excitedly after moving back to the living room furniture, Clint allowed himself his moments of pain, and grief, and envy. But all he had to do was look at Steve, at the pure awe and happiness alive across his features, and on Clint’s exhale he let it out. By the time the next inhale rolled around, the conversation had turned to Clint. 

“I gotta say, I didn’t think the first time I got to see you in my right mind that I’d be seein’ so much of ya,” Bucky said, smirking as Steve’s cheeks turned a brilliant pink. “Your ass certainly didn’t take any damage from the serum. I can’t imagine that your fella woulda drooled over your scrawny little runt ass from way back when.” Clint laughed and prepared to make a joke about how Bucky wasn’t allowed to speak for him but clamped his mouth shut when he got the feeling that Steve was incredibly uncomfortable. 

“Yeah, I. Sorry about that Buck. I’m not.” Steve paused and looked over the Clint, looking lost and a little bit afraid. Clint winked and nodded ever so slightly, and Steve swallowed and looked back at Bucky who was waiting patiently with a twinkle in his eye. 

“How do you feel about me, having a fella?”

The question hung there and Clint held his breath. Bucky didn’t respond immediately, simply looked at Steve and then lazily transferred his gaze to give Clint a once over. 

“He treat you right?” Bucky asked, turning back to Steve. Rather than feel offended at the implication, Clint felt relieved to know that Steve had another friend to watch his six. 

“He treats me better than right,” Steve said firmly, insistently, as though Clint wasn’t right there to hear him. “I love him, Buck.”

Clint felt his eyes flutter closed; he didn’t think there would be a day where the knowledge that Steve Rogers loved _him_ wouldn’t cause him to thank his lucky futzing stars. 

“That’s all that matters, Stevie. He treats ya good and ya love him. And Clint,” Clint snapped to attention. “This fool ever gives you any issues, you come to me and I’ll put him in his place, alright?” Bucky was smiling when he said it and Clint nodded. 

“10-4. You got it.”

Steve pouted a bit at that. “Why do I feel like you two already have some secret club behind my back?” 

Clint and Bucky both laughed. “Man shared a pot of coffee with me at ass o’clock in the morning, baby. We’re already thick as thieves.”

Steve’s put-upon pout blossomed into a smile, and fuck was it beautiful. 

*

It was approaching afternoon when Bucky’s cell phone rang, the three of them interrupted as they joked about how Bucky had tracked Steve down due to his Instagram post months prior. He had gone to the Tower to look for him first and was unsuccessful; they were just getting around to how Bucky had figured out where he was when Bucky’s ringtone blared from his pocket. 

“Your ringtone is I’ll Make Love to You by Boyz II Men. What the fuck is happening,” Clint asked, wondering just how strange the day was going to turn out to be. Even more confusing and wonderful, Bucky muttered under his breath just before taking the call. 

“Speak of the devil...Hey, Doll. Yeah, I made it, just like I said I would...nope, he had the sense to caffeinate me instead...mm-hmm. They’re comin’ back today, Tony was right. I’ll probably give them a hand. Haha, yeah, funny, you with your fucking hand jokes, I swear to God. Alright. Leave the apartment unlocked, I forgot my key. Yeah. You too, sweetheart.”

Silence blanketed the room after Bucky hung up and slipped his phone slowly back into his pocket. Clint had about a million questions, and Steve looked both insanely intrigued as well as looking like he was just bursting at the seams to give Bucky hell about having a sweetheart. 

“Did you just refer to Tony by his first name? Are you and Tony on a first name basis?” Clint figured it was a safe place to start. 

“Yeah. He’s a real pain in the ass, reminds me of his Dad. He’s been nice to me though, more than I deserve, got me hooked up at the tower and brought in the Princess of Wakanda to come and fix my head up. You ever met Shuri?” Clint and Steve both shook their heads, processing this new information as quickly as possible. 

“Oh, you’d love her. She’s quick, outsmarts Tony even, real funny and she showed me these things called mee-mee’s? Memes? I’m still trying to-”

“I swear to God and my Ma’s headstone, James Buchanan, if you don’t tell me who you were talkin’ to on the other end of that phone call I’m going to end you,” Steve said, and Clint burst into a fit of giggles. 

It was Bucky’s turn to blush then, and he cleared his throat before answering. 

“Listen. I don’t know whose bright idea it was to send that delicious, ridiculous piece of ass chasing after me all over the globe, but whoever’s idea it was, I blame them.”

_This is one of the greatest days of my life,_ Clint thought to himself as he watched Steve piece it together before his jaw dropped open. 

“SAM? YOU’RE FONDUING WITH SAM?!”

Bucky’s grin was so mischievous that Clint debated on asking him for lessons. “Fonduing, fucking, lovemaking, whatever you wanna call it. I made him promise not to tell you I was around, so don’t be mad at him. Oh, I’m also living with the birdbrain in the Tower. Aw, hey!” Bucky exclaimed, moving along faster than Steve could obviously handle, “Look at the two of us! Old men with hot birdbrain fellas to come home to. Who woulda thought?”

As the three of them laughed and Steve got over the shock of his two best friends being together, they started to load the cars up with Clint and Steve’s belongings. Bucky left the farm first after making them promise to have dinner with the rest of the team later, leaving Steve and Clint standing side by side outside of the house, looking up at her from the bottom of the porch steps. 

“Think the ghost’ll be alright?” Steve asked, snaking an arm around Clint’s lower back. Clint leaned back and sighed. 

“I dunno, love. Guess we’ll have to come back to check on him every now and again, yeah?”

Steve smiled down at him and kissed his forehead. 

“I like the idea of haunting this place with you, Clint Barton,” Steve said, and Clint tucked the words into himself, warm and soft, and carried them with him on their drive to the city.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is the perfect, beautiful art that I commissioned from natowe on Tumblr (http://natowe.tumblr.com)! Enjoy this gorgeous selfie that the boys uploaded onto their social media accounts :)


End file.
